


The Fox & The Scorpion

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Arkham Asylum, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Death Threats, Did I Mention Angst?, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Episode Related, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Surgery, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Origami, Riddles, Scars, Threats of Violence, edward talks too much, flagrant idolisation of Thomas Wayne, foxy thinks too much, in the absence of canon backstory I have created my own, possible dubcon depending on how mentally compromised you consider Eddie to be, references to parental abuse, there's some angst in this one by the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 94,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: And now I'm going to tell you about a scorpion.This scorpion wanted to cross a river, so he asked the frog to carry him.'No,' said the frog. 'No thank you. If I let you on my back you may sting meand the sting of the scorpion is death.''Now, where,' asked the scorpion. 'Is the logic in that?'For scorpions always try to be logical.'If I sting you, you will die. I will drown.'~ Orson Welles, 'Mr Arkadin'Ed and Lucius both think they can help each other, and maybe in doing so help themselves along the way.But the more time they spend together, the more the line between help and harm begins to blur.





	1. Would You Save My Soul Tonight?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucius wants a quiet drink after work, but The Riddler has other plans.  
> [Set between 3.15 and 3.17. Chapter title from Enrique Iglesias' "Hero," because of reasons.]

The drink is a scientific marvel, truly.

Three layers of different liquid, each their own unique shade of green, captured in the miniscule space offered by the martini glass. A different, delicately chopped piece of fruit suspended within each. It must have required an extraordinary level of skill. You’d need to calculate the necessary densities of the alcohol; determine the precise weight and buoyancy of each fruit; not to mention the steady hand needed to position each slice while pouring every layer just right. And finally, someone had to slip the cocktail stick with its plump, pitted green olive into the concoction without disturbing the effect. Even here in one of the more expensive wine bars he'd picked to spend his evening, Lucius Fox would not have imagined a Gotham City bartender capable of such a feat.  

He can't help twisting the glass at the stem to appreciate the artistry from every angle.

Yes, the drink is exquisite.

It's also not what he ordered.

"Um, sir?" he calls, lifting a hand to attract the attention of the bartender now several paces away from him at the largely empty bar.

The lack of a crowd is one of the reasons Lucius prefers it here. He finds the quieter atmosphere more inductive to calm, peaceful reflection at the end of a busy day. It seems a fair trade for the exorbitant prices, though Lucius is aware that his recent drop in salary means his days here are tragically numbered.

The bartender busies himself wiping an empty glass. Lucius could have sworn he'd grabbed it from a set of clean ones, but having no experience of bar work he concedes he may be mistaken. Harder to dismiss is the way the man seemed to register his call and yet grabbed the glass anyway, almost as if he were trying to ignore the request. But that's absurd. The staff here would never be so rude as to actively dismiss a paying customer. He must not have heard.

So Lucius tries again.

"Sir? I ordered a scotch."

This time it's impossible to read the man's behaviour as anything but evasive. He actually catches Lucius' eye for a moment only to turn away. Stranger still is that instead of looking snobbish or angry or dismissive, as one might expect from a discourteous employee, in that brief moment there was a flash of what Lucius can only interpret as _fear_ in the man's eyes.

His own eyes narrow as he subjects the man to greater scrutiny, noting traces of sweat beading along his hairline as he continues to swipe his cloth over and over the inside of the glass, knuckles white.

The man is terrified.

Lucius has done nothing to provoke such horror, which means there must be an additional factor to the situation he’s overlooking.

He glances back to his mystery beverage, with its three layers of striking, vivid _green_ , and the truth dawns on him just as a voice pipes up in his ear with confirmation.

"Now, now, Foxy, leave the poor man alone, can't you see he's busy?"

With his own similarly elaborate drink in hand, the sparkling green a perfect compliment to the garish shimmer of his suit, Edward Nygma arranges himself on the stool to Lucius' right, scooting it along so he can bring his wide, slightly manic smile uncomfortably close.

Lucius sighs. So much for a quiet evening.

The bartender has been warned away with some wild and elaborate threat no doubt. Poor man.

"Now drink up," Nygma continues, clinking his own glass against the rim of the other. "You'll like this better anyway, I promise. Men like us aren't made for scotch, Mr Fox. Our tastes are more refined."

"Scotch is refined," Lucius feels compelled to reason, aware only after the reproof has passed his lips that it disregards the instructions drummed into them all at the department _not_ to engage in banter, discussion and especially riddles with Mr Nygma.

To engage him is to risk being drawn into one of his maniacal 'games,' and being part of his games in any capacity only encourages his egotistical delusion that said games somehow give him a fated higher purpose and so further his psychosis. So Lee Tompkins, in consultation with key psychiatrists at Arkham Asylum, had concluded, based on a diagnosis of severe narcissistic egomania. The recommended tactic should one be approached by Mr Nygma is to avoid speaking altogether, if possible, and place a call to the GCPD at the earliest opportunity.

Sound advice and Lucius doesn't doubt the medical skills of his colleague.

And yet.

Lee and the others hadn't been there. They hadn't seen the _desperation_ in Edward Nygma as he held Harvey Bullock's life in his hands. He’d taken no joy in the fear and pain he was causing, not then anyway. He’d just asked frantic riddle after riddle, moments from cracking under the strain of his own insanity. And the man who'd met Lucius in his car later that night had been egocentric, certainly, but also unsure. Yearning for understanding. For validation. As if he hoped that by convincing Lucius he was sane he could in turn convince himself.

Lucius is sure there is a part of Edward that _knows_ how sick he is. He'd seen it in the man's eyes that night when Edward had asked him, voice cracking, if his actions seemed mad.

He'd almost got through to that part then.

Perhaps, if they could only talk for longer, one academic to another, Lucius could find that part again. Perhaps he could protect the city and get a lost soul the help he so desperately needed quickly and quietly, avoiding the tension and high stakes that police involvement would inevitably create and escalate.

Clearly the man felt some kind of kinship with him. ‘Men like us’ he’d said. Could Lucius use that? Perhaps he could turn this unexpected encounter into an opportunity.

“Shameful propaganda perpetuated by liquor companies,” Edward responds to the comment about scotch, leaning back to wave a dark green gloved hand at the bottles lined up behind the bar. A grand gesture. Designed, Lucius assumes, to encompass not only the companies represented in this one establishment but in all existence. “In order to divest us from as much of our hard won earnings as possible they would have us believe the only way to be a Real Man is to burn away our taste buds and oesophagus with tasteless distilled grain.” He leans in, close enough that the brim of his hat casts a shadow over Lucius’ eyes. “Don’t buy into the hype, my foxy friend.” A Cheshire cat grin, then he’s leaning back, plucking the cocktail stick from his own glass and slipping the olive on the end into his mouth. “Life is to be enjoyed,” he adds while he chews. “So to hell with what the world says we should be. Like what you like and don’t let anyone say you can’t.”

Lucius almost replies ‘and what if I like scotch?’ but he stops himself. He’s prompted enough of a digression as it is, best to get to the purpose of Edward’s visit as fast as he can. Who knows how many lives may be at risk if he delays.

“Why are you here, Ed?” he asks.

You’d think Lucius had just offered the world on a silver platter the way Edward’s face lights up at the question.

“I’m here to celebrate,” he says. No. Announces. Relishing every word.

He pauses to bite down on his ear-to-ear grin before reaching into his jacket and slapping a newspaper down on the surface between them.

Of course. Lucius should have known.

It’s not the Gazette but one of the lesser publications Lucius doesn’t read, not typically. This edition had been the exception as Bullock had been raging about it all day, smacking anyone who got too close over the head with a rolled up copy in his fury and cursing the press for disregarding his authority. An overly vitriol reaction, although Lucius is not without sympathy. Up until now and courtesy of further recommendation from Ms Thompkins the GCPD had negotiated a strict media ban against using Edward Nygma’s self-professed criminal alias – another attempt to lessen support for his delusions. But while most media outlets had been accommodating, it was only a matter of time before the less scrupulous took advantage of Edward’s theatrics in order to drum up more trade and today had been that day.  

The headline, etched in bold capital letters and followed by a short rehash of Edward’s previous crimes and role at the police department pre-Arkham, exclaims:

  **MEET THE RIDDLER – GOTHAM’S NEW SUPERCRIMINAL!**

**HAVE THE GCPD MET THEIR MATCH?**

“Finally,” Edward sighs, closing his eyes as he savours the moment. When he opens them again his gaze is distant and unfocused. “Finally,” he repeats. “This city is seeing me for _who I truly am_.” He punctuates the last part by tapping a finger over the pages as he speaks. “And who better to celebrate this triumph with –” His bright eyes flick back to Lucius. “– than the man who helped make it all possible.” He picks up his glass and lifts it in a toast. “To you, Mr Fox.”

Lucius keeps his expression calm – the same stoicism he and Thomas had perfected at Wayne Enterprises. But inside he feels sick.

Ever since Edward’s crazed but heartfelt thank you in his car that night there’s been this constant, nagging feeling in the pit of Lucius’ stomach. A twisting, creeping fear that his choices that day could well have been the catalyst that propelled Edward deeper into the madness that now claims him. That in answering that last riddle he’d set something into motion within the damaged synapses of Edward’s brain, snapping the last thread of his sanity and sending him toppling over the edge as surely as Harvey Bullock had over that banister. Only for Edward Nygma there had been no one reaching out to catch him as he fell.

No matter how many times Lucius tells himself he had no choice, that he did what he had to to keep others from dying, he always comes back to the idea that he should have done more. There must have been some way, some turn of phrase, that could have reached Edward before it was too late.

The man is a murderer several times over, Lucius reminds himself. One who has threatened not only Lucius’ life but that of young Bruce Wayne, for heaven’s sake. He owes Edward nothing. Less than nothing.

And _yet_.

At the very least it was him who set the ball rolling in regards to Edward’s colourful moniker. Perhaps if he’d left off Edward’s self identification in his report this ‘riddler’ article could have been avoided.

“You give me too much credit,” he says and a foolish part of him hopes that Edward will agree. And in doing so free Lucius once and for all from his guilt.

“Don’t be modest, Foxy,” Edward smiles. “I owe you. And I plan to repay the favour, don’t you worry about that.”

The praise and the promise make Lucius’ stomach drop. He dreads to think what kind of reward an unhinged mind like Edward’s might offer as gratitude.

No, his connection to Mr Nygma has already caused too much harm, to the man himself and to Gotham – any more interaction only risks making things worse. Even if he does have a chance at reaching the man, attempting to do so now, unprepared, is too risky. He needs back up.

And for that he needs a distraction.

“But you’re not drinking,” Edward notes over the rim of his glass after swallowing a substantial portion of the liquid down, turning his tidy layers into a swirling mess. His smile quirks up at one side, sly. “Do you think it’s poisoned? Because it’s not.” Then the grin dips. “Or do you think my achievements are not worthy of celebration?”

This is likely the best opportunity for distraction Lucius will get, so he takes advantage.

“I wouldn’t call an article in a cheap tabloid a triumph, no. Especially when it refers to you by the wrong name.”

Edward rolls his eyes.

“Oh Foxy, please,” he berates. “You and I both know this _is my name_.” He presses a gloved index finger to the RIDDLER part of the headline. “That’s the _whole point_.”

“No, I mean your given name,” Lucius deadpans, waving his right hand at the paper while he surreptitiously draws his left under the bar and onto to his lap. “They spelt it wrong. Used an ‘I’ not a ‘Y.’”

“What?” Edward frowns and, as anticipated, places his drink back on the bar so he can snatch up the paper with both hands and begin to scan the text. “Where?”

“Oh, a few paragraphs in,” Lucius says, carefully vague.

The beginning and the end of the article will be quick to check, but if Edward thinks the mistake is somewhere in the middle it will take him longer to uncover the lie. Giving Lucius more time to flip open the phone in the pocket of the navy woollen jacket he hadn’t yet removed and feel out the necessary number.

“I don’t see it,” Edward mutters, adjusting the bridge of his glasses to help him focus more deeply on the page.

Just four numbers to go, Lucius needs only a little more time.

“You don’t? It was there when I read the article this morning. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“No, no, that seems unlikely.” Edward brings the page closer to his face. “You’re not the kind of man who makes – Wait.”

He lowers the paper and fixes his gaze on Lucius instead, eyes narrowing.

Just two numbers to go, but even the slightest movement is sure to be noticed with Edward’s eyes on him, so Lucius holds still, meeting the gaze with a lift of an eyebrow. After a tense few seconds all seems well because Edward’s expression softens, lips curling once more. But then he gives a light shake of his head.

“Very good. Very clever,” he says. “But I’m afraid you’ve been _outfoxed_ this time.”

He laughs at his own joke while Lucius tries to brazen through.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

But it’s the wrong tactic, turning Edward’s eyes hard and cold, his mouth a thin line.

“Empty your pockets. Both hands on the table,” he instructs, baring his teeth when Lucius hesitates and growling out – “ _Now!_ ”

Lucius sighs. He tried. He failed. No use crying about it. The only course is to submit for now and hope a new opportunity presents itself soon. So he obeys Edward to the letter, reaching in his right pocket to remove the gloves tucked neatly inside, as well as pulling out the open phone from his left. He places both items on the surface of the bar and flattens his palms across the wood beside them.

Edward takes the phone and holds it delicately between thumb and forefinger, smirking as he examines the display.

“Only two numbers from victory, well played,” he says and the praise sounds genuine. “But you’ll have to try harder than that.” With a curl of his fingers the phone flips shut, aborting the unfinished call. “Who were you calling? Surely not Gotham’s chief buffoon Harvey Bullock?” His eyes rest on Lucius for barely a second before he continues on, answering the question himself. “No, of course, it could only be the illustrious James Gordon, the GCPD’s only mildly tarnished white knight. Fair enough. Though if I were you –” He curls his other arm across the bar and leans forward, lowering his voice as if imparting a great secret. “– I’d have put him on speed dial.”

As he draws back Edward bops his head a little from side to side – a miniature victory dance – and Lucius doesn’t protest. Galling as it is to admit, the man is not wrong.

It’s because the technology is most widely regarded as a _social_ advancement that Lucius had not thought to make use of it. He’s had little in the way of a social life since Thomas and Martha died. Perhaps for Alfred Pennyworth or young Bruce, but the idea had seemed presumptuous somehow. Programming his phone to allow faster connection to Mr Gordon and his other work colleagues had simply not occurred to him.

“Now,” Edward starts again. “I could confiscate this –” A nod to the phone. “– or render it inoperable. But, it would be a shame to destroy such an expensive piece of equipment, and I see no reason to resort to wanton violence.” Considering the impressive record of violent acts attributed to him, that Edward can say this without a hint of irony is quite an achievement. “We are both intelligent men. Let’s skip ahead, shall we?”

Lucius watches with a frown as Edward places the phone gently back on the counter and slides it forward.

“This is how the game would go,” Edward tells him. “I’ll give this back to you.” With a flick of his wrist he gestures to Lucius. “You’ll threaten to contact my former co-workers.” Another flick and his fingertips rest against the silky black of his waistcoat. “I’ll tell you that if you do I have… contingencies.” A wicked smile. “You’ll ask me –”

Another gesture to Lucius.

A pause.

Edward lifts an eyebrow and Lucius realises he is supposed to fill in the blank.

“What contingencies?” he asks, obediently.

“I imagined it with a bit more pep,” Edward scolds. “But I _suppose_ it will suffice,” he huffs before continuing. “You’ll ask me what contingencies.” Leaning back, Edward sweeps his arm over the interior of the bar. “And I’ll be forced to do something unpleasant to one of these poor, innocent bystanders.”

As Lucius follows the gesture he notices several patrons throw them uneasy glances and it strikes him how suspicious it is anyone has remained in the building at all considering The Riddler’s reputation. It would seem the bartender is not the only one threatened into submission.  

“Do what?” he asks, sharper this time. “Ed, what have you done?”

A gleeful flash of white teeth shows in Edward’s smile before he replies.

“Oh, use your imagination, Foxy. Perhaps I have someone wired up to a substantial, but ingeniously contained, amount of C-4 with the detonator concealed in my hat.” He twirls a hand upwards to indicate the accessory. “Or maybe I need only press a button hidden in my jacket pocket to send a fatal electric shock coursing through the group of friends sitting at the corner table.” His other hand pats the pocket at his chest, voice growing louder and more dramatic with each possibility. “Or I might have kidnapped someone’s family member and even now have them suspended in an undisclosed location above a vat of bubbling acid, set to be dropped inside unless I personally give the order to set them free at a prearranged time.” His eyes flash fever bright as he brings his hands together, leather fingers creaking as they interlock. “Needless to say, whatever I have planned will not be as harmless as grape juice and knockout gas this time. _So!_ Are we going to have to play out the whole tedious charade in full, or shall we move on?”

It could be a bluff. And for a second Lucius considers calling the other man on it. It’s what Jim Gordon might do, he thinks. Straighten his back and stare Edward down, tell him he’s not playing any more of his games, chisel jawed and gruff. He hung up on that Tetch guy once, people said, mid conversation. Refused to even give him the time of day.

But for every harmless gassing on Edward’s hands, there’s a real homicide too. And Lucius is not Jim Gordon.

He can’t risk it.

So he pulls the phone towards him, flips it open so Edward can see, and slowly and deliberately presses his thumb to the off switch until the screen goes black. Once done he snaps it shut again and flicks it away. It’s a petulant gesture, but he feels a small, petty thrill at the way the device scutters across the wood and clinks to a stop against the stem of his still untouched drink, causing small ripples to flicker across the surface of the top layer.

“Wonderful,” Edward tells him, voice cloying. “Now,” he continues, clapping his hands. “Since that’s out of the way, we can move on to the good stuff.”

He steeples his hands and gazes, enraptured, at Lucius over the top of them.

“Answer me this,” he says, slowly, annunciating each word, like he’s been practising. Or is this the rehearsal? “Why does a man with a brilliant mind and a promising career with a company at the heart of cutting edge scientific and technological research, throw it all away for a dead end job at the beck and call of Gotham’s not so finest?”

Crude as it is, it’s impossible not to recognise himself in the description and Lucius doesn’t know whether to feel fearful or flattered at the thought of Edward taking a personal interest in him.

“Is this a riddle?” he asks. A delaying tactic. He doesn’t need a department mandate to tell him that sharing private details with Edward Nygma, no matter how banal, is unlikely to end well.

“No, Mr Fox,” Edward answers, pointing his pressed together fingertips in Lucius’ direction. “ _You’re_ the riddle.” Oh dear. “But don’t worry. I’ve solved it for you.”

He shouldn’t say anything.

He shouldn’t.

It will only encourage Edward’s fixation.

But there’s something in the way Edward’s smile grows soft as he waits for Lucius to respond, the wildness in his eyes dulling to a quieter anxiety. It feels almost like a plea. An opening, maybe, through which to offer a lifeline.

“You have?”

Abruptly the mania returns, Edward jolting upright, beaming, and Lucius presses his lips tight together as if this could somehow take back the words. Foolish. Arrogant. Thinking he knows better than medical professionals how to help.

“Yes,” Edward nods, giddy with confidence. “And it’s just –” His hands spring apart, thumb and forefinger of each pressing together to form two circles either side of his face. “– perfect! Poetic, even. You see –” Now his palms press together, like a priest in the midst of some unholy sermon. “There I was, a man, so I was trying to convince myself, in desperate need of an enemy. And here you are –” His joined hands point just shy of Lucius’ nose. “A man desperate to be a hero!” He laughs then, easy and joyful, rocking back in his stool with pleasure. “We were practically made for each other!”   

Lucius frowns. This is bad. If Edward has him cast in an ongoing role in his psychosis then Lucius’ presence, his very existence, in Edward’s proximity may end up enabling the other man’s sickness. He needs to curb this misguided reasoning and fast.

“No,” he says, slow and firm. “That’s not true. I have no interest in heroics.”

This is met with a tut and lazy wave, as though the words are nothing but smoke, a mild inconvenience easily wafted aside.

“I didn’t say anything about _heroics_ ,” Edward insists. “All that running around shooting at people, jumping out of windows. No, we can leave that athletic nonsense to the likes of Jim Gordon. You’re beyond that. You don’t want to catch bad guys, Foxy. You actually want to _help people._ ”

There’s no scorn behind the compliment, as one might expect from a criminal. Edward offers it with enthusiasm, eyes bright, and the sincerity leaves Lucius speechless.

Speechless first with bewilderment and then, shockingly, a flutter of pride. More than he’s felt at praise from Alfred or Bruce or any of his new friends. Not that he thinks they would lie to him, but there’s always that sense of bias in commendation from a friend. Always the thought, however fleeting, that their affection may be causing them to dissemble, making Lucius feel self-conscious and fraudulent. The only one who hadn’t made him feel that way was Thomas, whose plain and honest judgement he’d trusted completely. Edward’s frankness reminds him of that, perhaps, in a way – no more or less than a statement of fact as Edward sees it.

“It’s what drives you. Always has,” Edward presses, taking full advantage of the sudden silence from his audience. “A fervour that lead you to _so many_ activist extracurriculars in college, diligently maintained alongside your studies. Which were not unimpressive either, you straight A student you, bravo.” Edward makes a fist and brushes his knuckles over Lucius’ shoulder in a mockery of camaraderie. “All the typical ones, of course – Greenpeace, Amnesty, UNICEF.” Edward lifts a hand, counting off organisations on his fingers. “But also ACLU, the Citizen’s Justice Association, Gotham Neighbour Hood Watch _and_ WWF. What a busy bee you were. And still a member of all of them.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Lucius notes, finding his voice again. It seems he needn’t have worried about sharing personal information – Edward has saved him the trouble by uncovering it himself.

“Oh you have no idea,” Edward smirks back, lifting his head so the bar light catches his glasses, making him nothing but smile and empty white. Predatory. Unknowable. “I was always a quick study. More at home with books than people,” he carries on, leaning closer so the glare dissipates and there he is just a man once more, tired lines beneath his eyes. “You understand that, don’t you, Foxy? By all accounts you were quite the bookworm yourself. Which paid off for you, just like it did for me.” He flattens a palm to his chest. “Granting us both an accolade in common – a full scholarship to Gotham Academy.”

Edward stops to eye him up and down then – a reassessment, in light of this newfound connection between them. Lucius wonders if a similar curiosity shows in his own eyes.

“Were your parents proud?” Edward asks after a beat and there’s an odd weight to the question, a sharp edge to his tone. “I bet they were. All hugs and kisses, waving you off with tears in their eyes and little trinkets to remember them by. Their little boy, so smart, so special.” His smile grows wider and fixed, gaze turning inward. “When my father heard the news… he was so overwhelmed, he could barely speak.” A choking laugh. Then Edward shakes his head and the tension breaks before Lucius can begin to unravel the mystery he senses hidden in the comment. “We were there at the same time, can you imagine? Our young, acne ridden selves passing each other in the hallways, blissfully unaware of how our future lives would intersect. Different Majors, of course, but we shared a Professor. Theodore Bold. Perhaps you remember? Short, stubby little man who liked to introduce himself at the start of every lecture as Bold by name –”

“Bold by nature,” Lucius finishes, a long forgotten image of the man in question, hairless head shining white as a cue ball under the florescent lecture hall lights, surprising him with enough nostalgia to make him smile. “Or as the student faculty liked to say –”

Edward joins in the rest – the two of them united for a moment by the old refrain.

“Bold by name, _bald_ by nature.” 

Their matching laughter makes a pleasant harmony – Lucius’ deep chuckle with Edward’s higher pitch – and the moment holds a lifetime that could have been. An almost history. Private memories that never were.

Until the emerald glint of Edward’s lapels shocks Lucius back to reality, laughter fading. Save a bittersweet memory of it that clings to his lips.

Because he can see it so clearly – the youthful friendship they might have had. Both on the outskirts of the general hub of student life, busying themselves in libraries and private hobbies. They would have been an easy fit. Studying together first, most likely, neither feeling comfortable enough to intrude on the other without excuse. Then gradually sharing more of themselves. Advising on coursework. Helping with each other’s projects. Relaxing together in the evenings. There’d be chess too, somewhere down the line, Lucius is certain of that. For men like them, eager to keep their minds sharp, having an intellectual equal to pit their wits against would be too good an opportunity to pass up.

Isn’t that what had driven Edward to his previous misguided and lethal contests after all – a need for someone to challenge him? And through that challenge guide him and shape him. Give him the focus and purpose he’d lost in Penguin’s absence.

What a pleasure it would be to play a real, honest game of chess with Edward Nygma. With an actual board instead of a city, and inanimate pieces to manoeuvre and sacrifice instead of living people.

“Ed –” The name escapes him. No plan. No strategy. All he knows is that he wants to hold on to the moment, to keep this connection.

“You graduated First with honours, of course,” Edward hurries to cut him off, drawing back, arms crossing before his chest. But he doesn’t settle in the position, one arm lifting up again soon after only to falter, fingertips biting into his palm. It’s a break from his former unswerving bravado that makes him seem nervous. Defensive. “I would have too… if my tutors hadn’t been such…” His nose wrinkles and he spits the rest through gritted teeth. “Dim-witted, unimaginative…”

He stops and closes his eyes, breathing deep.

It should be distasteful, the comparison and desperate shift of blame at what he sees as coming up short. Especially when one takes into account the many qualifications required for forensics work – Lucius imagines Edward’s degree must have been prestigious in its own right. The insistence that it could have, _should_ have been more speaks to a much deeper insecurity. The kind Lucius saw often in sneering fat cat superiors, men and women who’d spent years defending their undeserved paycheques and position, until they’d convinced themselves through sheer insistence that they were better and smarter and more important, not just than how they truly believed themselves deep down but than anyone and everyone around them. If it hadn’t been for Thomas’ calm keeping him in check Lucius would have been overwhelmed by his fury at such arrogance long ago. But no such anger surfaces here, only sadness. Because Edward is at the very start of that sorry process, his conceit not yet honed to cold perfection but still raw and gaping. It doesn’t wound. It simply hurts.

“Never mind,” Edward mutters, eyes blinking open, fingers splaying in a frantic wave. “That’s not important. The point is –” He shifts, lenses catching the light again and Lucius swallows back a sigh, knowing the moment is lost and he can only sit and wait through another tirade. “With your qualifications you could have taken a job anywhere. Wayne Enterprises is one of any number of companies that would have welcomed your expertise and, truth be told –” He flattens his hand and places the edge to the side of his mouth, dropping his tone to a hissing stage whisper. “– it’s never been the highest ranking in terms of achievement.” He frowns in mock apology as he draws his hand away. “Oh, it’s certainly at the heart of extraordinary advancement,” he adds, like a consolation prize. “But not always the forerunner of any given field. Just a passing glance at their competition is enough to suggest the real breakthroughs are happening elsewhere. Luthorcorp, for instance, have a number of projects, widely acclaimed among the academic community. And they offered you double the salary. And yet, you picked the Waynes.” His fingers curl, one left pointing skyward that Edward narrows his gaze over. “Why?”

It’s another rhetorical, so Lucius doesn’t respond. But the answer is so easy his mind provides it regardless -

It’s Thomas.

Warm, strong, brave and beautiful Thomas Wayne.

They’d met by chance during a semester in Paris. That was where Thomas had first outlined his plans for the family business over dinner in the shadow of the Eifel Tower, full of infectious laughter and swelling hope for the future. One evening they’d spent together, before returning to their separate studies. Two souls passing in the night. But what a night it was. Lucius had never forgotten it – everything Thomas had told him, everything they’d shared. When it came to choosing a career after graduation there’d never been any doubt where he’d find himself.

“Because,” Edward begins to answer and he’s so confident Lucius’ heart skips a beat. He can’t know, can he? No one knew about that night in Paris. Not even Martha. “Thomas and Martha Wayne swore they were different, that their company was going to save the world.” Edward dips his finger, pointing at Lucius’ chest. “And you believed them.”

Lucius relaxes. An insightful deduction. But it doesn’t cut to the heart. He still has some secrets.

“How long did it take, I wonder?” Edward muses, folding his arms properly now he’s re-found his stride. “Before you accepted the soul crushing truth – that Wayne Enterprises was just a corporation like any other. Full of the same bureaucracy and back room politics and corruption as the rest of them.” He hunches over, as though to shield them from the rest of the bar. As if they need the privacy. “A long time for you, I imagine,” he says and this close Lucius can see the corners of Edward’s eyes soften behind his glasses, lips flicking at the edges with a sadness so quiet it seems unlikely to be performance. “I bet you stayed optimistic through it all. Because you wanted it so badly. Hoping and hoping things would get better, that the company, the city, would start to change, just like you’d been promised it would.” Edward pauses to wet his lips. “Only instead, your hope got gunned down in the street one night and you were left to fend for yourself in a world much darker than you ever imagined.”

Every reminder of the shooting is like losing them all over again, tying the same frozen knot in his stomach that Lucius felt when he first heard the news. This time is no different and he sets his jaw to hide the pain. But not enough. Edward’s keen eyes dart across his face, following the lift of his chin, and Lucius has little doubt his attempts at concealment are plain.

Thomas was always better at this. The better stoic. The better man.

He’d have known what to say to get through to Edward Nygma. If it was him Edward had been facing on that stairwell Thomas would have known exactly what to do to bring him back to himself, to save him and Harvey together and all the rest besides.

Too bad for Edward and the rest of the city that they have just Lucius instead.

“They were your everything, weren’t they?” Edward mutters, still scanning Lucius’ face. “The cornerstone of the whole enterprise. For you. Maybe all of Gotham. And when they died…” Their eyes lock and Edward gives a short nod, like he’s found something in the gaze he recognises. “A part of you died as well.”

Lucius swallows, trying hard to bury the swell of feeling clawing up his throat.

It’s true. He’d known the instant the news broke that a fundamental part of his life was over.

But this is the first time anyone has acknowledged it.

Not from lack of care but by design. He’d kept the truth of how deep Thomas and Martha’s loss had cut him well hidden. Out of self-preservation initially – not knowing who to trust in the wake of a murder that had seemed suspiciously convenient for his employers even before uncovering their connection to Indian Hill, it had seemed prudent to conceal his affection for the Waynes, least he put himself at risk of the same fate. Now, despite leaving the company and so lessening that danger, withholding his grief has become second nature.

In any case, who could he unburden himself to? Not Thomas and Martha’s son, still struggling with his own grief. Lucius owes it to Bruce’s parents to be strong for the boy. Alfred might offer a sympathetic ear as the loss must be just as sharp for him – from the way Thomas used to speak of the man Lucius knows Alfred was always much more than a butler, that Thomas and Martha were family to him as surely as they were to Bruce. But Alfred has his own concerns trying to be parent and guardian and tutor to a young man growing up in an increasingly hostile environment, and besides he clearly favours the British stiff upper lip approach to mourning. No, Alfred doesn’t need Lucius distracting him with his own troubles. And as for his friends at the GCPD, well. They just wouldn’t understand.

It’s easier, somehow, to have his pain brought to light like this. Quantified and accepted without obligation. No need for him to struggle to share or express it a certain way.

Strange that it should be Edward Nygma, of all people, to bring him this relief.  

“And you’ve tried and tried to get that part of yourself back,” Edward carries on. Soft. Gaze unwavering. “That’s what it’s all been about. Helping the Wayne boy. Your pitiful attempts at espionage at the Asylum. Quitting the company. And finally –” He clasps his hands together across the bar. “Taking my place at the Gotham City Police Department.”

That last might have seemed a threat, a quiet disapproval of Lucius for usurping his position, if it wasn’t for the unmistakable _pity_ in the downward turn of Edward’s lips and the lines creasing the centre of his brow.

“You want to keep their memory alive. Be the hero they can no longer be. So of course, _of course_ , you would join the police force. Because if there is one place in this whole stinking city that is still a force for good, then _surely_ it’s law enforcement, right?” A shrug. “ _Serve and Protect_ and all that.” Edward leans back, lips twisting in a mockery of a smile. “That’s why I joined, you know.” He chuckles, a puff of air escaping his nose as he shakes his head. “I was naïve enough, _stupid_ enough, to think I could actually make a difference. But it doesn’t take long, does it? For them to beat that naivety right out of you. You step through those doors into the bullpen – ” He holds up a hand, twisting at the wrist, and Lucius can’t tell which of the two of them he’s gesturing to. “– bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to get to work. And they take you to that lab.” He moves his hand across his face – a charade of the movement he’s describing. “And they leave you there.” His palm slaps down on the surface of the bar. “Bring you useless evidence to catalogue and record, in _triplicate_. Then when they do call you out to the scene of a crime do the detectives listen to your opinion? _No_. Mostly they just want you to fit the evidence to some narrative they’ve already concocted and have you rush through the report so they can finish early, get back to drowning the sorrow of their tattered love lives with cheap whiskey and lukewarm pizza. Or worse, they tell you to sit on a report, delay an investigation so the suspect has enough time to get a fancy lawyer or finds some way to skip town, while they walk away with a tidy bribe lining their pockets. Until eventually you realise – it’s not about law and order and justice.” He throws both hands up together, laughing. “It’s all just a _game_. And you? You’re just a pawn. To be used and discarded. Disrespected. Disposable.”

The bitterness in Edward’s voice stings, because it’s _real_.

“Is that really how you remember it?” Lucius is too shocked to keep the astonishment from his voice.

Because it’s such a wildly different picture to how Jim recalls Edward’s time at the precinct. True, Harvey is inclined to dismiss Edward as having always been ‘weird and freaky,’ when he talks about him at all, and Lucius has overheard some of the cops gossip about how they ‘never liked the guy’ and ‘always knew he was a bad ‘un’ – there’s clearly no love lost there. But Gordon had spoken of Edward as once being a valued member of the team, as a colleague he’d trusted. As a friend.

That’s certainly how he’d seemed during the Galavan affair – trusted enough to shelter a then fugitive Detective Gordon and for his home to be used as a combination safe house and HQ.

“You think I’m lying?” Edward asks. Calm, not accusing. It’s a real question this time.

Lucius wants him to be.

Wants to believe Jim Gordon’s version of events.

It would be so much easier to write off Edward’s unhappy account as a symptom of his sickness.

But his description of isolation in the lab rings true enough. Other than Bullock and Gordon, who were friends prior to Lucius joining the team, the police and detectives rarely pay him any mind. And hadn’t Bullock himself been more than ready to ignore evidence of Edward’s serial killing – disregarding Lucius’ opinion, just as Edward claimed?

Come to think of it, perhaps it was Penguin more than Jim and the other detectives Edward had been supporting during the attack on Gotham’s former, _former_ corrupt Mayor. His fear about what was happening to Bruce has left much of that night a blur to Lucius, but one thing he does recall is Cobblepot berating one of his men for getting dirt on Edward’s bedsheets. _“Mr Nygma has graciously opened his home to us,”_ he’d said – Lucius distinctly remembers the ‘graciously’ because it struck him as a rather sophisticated turn of phrase for a gangster. _“The least we can do is treat his things with some respect.”_ In contrast, he can think of no instance of gratitude for Edward’s assistance from his fellows at the precinct.

And reading between the lines of how the attack on Galavan had concluded, Lucius has to wonder – how well does he know Jim Gordon, really?

Enough to know he means well, but is not infallible. Or beyond allowing the truth of his past conduct to be obscured.

“No,” Lucius concedes. “But I think the truth is… more complicated than your understanding of it.”

“Oh, so, you think I’m deluding myself?” Edward smiles, unfazed, and Lucius presses his lips together, unable to determine a satisfactory response. Because yes, of course Edward is deluded. But the line between delusion and reality is muddy here. “Or perhaps –” Edward clasps his hands back together. “– you just haven’t been there long enough to know the depths of depravity our boys in blue can sink to. Regardless, you can’t tell me you haven’t been disappointed. You signed up for a fresh start and what you got was more of the same dreary, morally ambiguous drudgery you left Wayne Enterprises to escape.”

As much as he wants to protest, Lucius can’t deny Edward has a point there.

“Until one day,” Edward goes on, eyes sparkling. “One very special, magical day, when you intercepted a telegram for detective Gordon, and everything changed.” He brings his hands to his face and rests his chin against the knuckles, beaming at Lucius like a proud sibling. “Because suddenly folks _were_ listening to you. Looking to you. Needing you. Suddenly _you_ were the one with the power. What you said and did _mattered_. And that part of yourself you’d been missing?” Edward presses his knuckles to his lips a moment, tensing with glee. “You found it,” he breathes, drawing his hands away. “Don’t deny it, I saw it in your eyes when you were answering my riddles. I bet you can still feel it, can’t you?”

“Feel –” Lucius has to pause to swallow, his mouth unaccountably dry. “Feel what?”

“The _rush!_ ” Edward grins. “All those real, tangible lives hanging in the balance, so close to being lost. Their fate resting on _your shoulders._ Knowing what would happen if you made the wrong choice.” He drops his hands to the bar and leans closer in. “I had you on that same edge as Harvey, staring into that void between truth and uncertainty and oh, Foxy –” His hands dart forward, warm leather curling over Lucius’ exposed skin. “Wasn’t it _beautiful?_ ”

This is pure insanity now. All of Edward’s insight and deduction twisted into nonsense – the calm, rational certainty in his expression an unnerving juxtaposition to the lunacy of his words. Just like his explanation for killing those academics or that first reveal of his new identity – as if keeping the memory of a dead friend alive was justifiable motive for murder or the name ‘Riddler’ was an obvious conclusion to it all.

The logic of a once brilliant mind subsumed by madness.

Which is why Lucius hesitates to respond, instead keeping his eyes fixed on Edward’s bright and clear ones, captivated by the certainty he finds there. No anguish, no second guessing, just pure, unfettered, near religious belief in the truth of his claim.

It’s sad and painful and frightening all at once.

And that’s the reason Lucius’ heart starts to race, lips parting in a silent gasp.

The _only reason_.

And the way his fingers twitch with something like longing, as though he’s thinking to answer Edward’s grip – that’s just his sorrow, just sympathy at seeing a man not unlike himself so very lost. That’s all.

Isn’t it?

“No!” he says, snatching his hands away. Although the gesture and the protest seem to have come much too late. “I thought people were _dying_. My friend was in danger. There was no beauty in that. I was terrified.”

Edward purses his lips, eyes flashing gemstone cold, and Lucius fears he’s crossed a line, the delicate tightrope they’ve been walking so far finally about to snap.

But then Edward’s smiling again, so fast it’s enough to give Lucius whiplash.

“Fine,” he says, firm but with no trace of anger. “If that’s how you want to play it. It took me a while to accept my true self as well. But don’t worry, Foxy. I told you – I owe you. Which is why I’m going to help you uncover the real Lucius Fox –” He waves a hand up and down Lucius’ now stiff and straight-backed form. “– muffled under all that wool and…” His hand circles a moment as he searches for the right word. “Stoicism,” he settles on, with uncanny accuracy. “Starting with a little insider information – a tip I wish someone had told me sooner.” He stares Lucius down and Lucius tries to look away, more aware than ever of the need to break this obsessive attachment Edward is building between them. But in the end his focus stays on the other man regardless. “Harvey Bullock is not your friend,” Edward tells him. Calm. Almost clinical. “None of them are. And the sooner you realise that, the easier this is all going to be.”

“That’s not true,” Lucius tries, appalled at how _desperate_ he sounds. “I have friends at the GCPD. Harvey. Jim Gordon. Doctor Thompkins.” The list ends there, bringing with it a sudden feeling of inadequacy that Lucius gives himself a mental slap for. It seems Edward’s warped perceptions are starting to invade his own and he can’t allow that. “They were your friends once, too,” he adds, changing tactic.

“Hmmm,” Edward hums, feigning contemplation by curling a finger to his lips. “So says the man drinking alone, on a Friday night.” His finger moves down to stroke his chin. “Who’s deluded now?”

This is an obvious fallacy and Lucius shakes his head much harder than necessary in frustration.

“I _like_ drinking alone,” he insists.

“No one _likes_ to be alone, Foxy!” Edward snaps, hand curling into a fist, nose scrunching up in a snarl. He heaves out a couple of ragged breaths, then his gaze turns inward and he jerks his head back, as though shocked by the ferocity of his own statement. He pauses to lick his lips, like a self-conscious cat grooming itself after a fall. “We suffer it, because we have to,” he continues, cool and collected once more, but Lucius takes note of the slip. “To make ourselves stronger. Because the people close to us have proven themselves weak or foolish or untrustworthy. Or because none of them think to include us in their social plans.”

He nods at Lucius during this last, as though to imply the whole assessment has been about him all along, but Lucius isn’t fooled. ‘Loneliness’ had been Edward’s first riddle that night – it’s not hard to see Edward is talking about himself here.

“But who needs them, right?” Edward shrugs, throwing his whole upper body into the gesture, lifting his shoulders and arms together, both palms turned up. The movement seems to bolster him and he grins again. “I mean –” A chuckle. “– they’re hardly on our level. The IQ of the whole GCPD combined couldn’t touch us. You’re better off. We both are.” His hands drop slowly back to the bar. “You don’t need friends, Foxy. You’ve got me.”

His face splits with the subsequent smile – the same wild, giddy and lost one Lucius remembers from the back of his car that last moment before unconsciousness. And like last time, even knowing the danger inherent in the expression, it pains him far more than it scares him, because he can see how bright and warm and uplifting it could be, if not clouded by sickness.

“So.” A sense of finality drops into Edward’s tone and it starts a cold, queasy lurch in the pit of Lucius’ stomach, because he realises whatever mad criminal scheme this meeting must surely be a prelude to is soon to begin. “You can spend the rest of your evening here, if you want. While away the hours in solitude with only overpriced alcoholic beverages for company. _Or_ –” Edward reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, lilac envelope with a question mark drawn neatly in green at the centre. “You could spend a more fruitful, challenging and character-building evening. With me.” Lucius catches a glimpse of pearl between Edward’s parted lips as he slides the envelope across the bar, depositing it next to the untouched drink and discarded phone. “This will tell you where I am. It shouldn’t take you too long to figure out.”

With his stomach well and truly in knots now as he contemplates the best course of action, Lucius ghosts his fingers over the surface of the envelope.

“And if I don’t?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the paper. He has no desire to witness more of Edward’s crazed glee as he explains the cruel and unusual torture he has planned should Lucius fail to meet his demands.

“Then you will have deprived yourself of an excellent opportunity for intellectual stimulation, scintillating conversation and an exquisite gourmet dinner,” Edward tells him. “My own recipe. I am an _excellent_ cook.”

Lucius frowns. More games.

“And?” he presses, eyes flicking up. Presumably Edward wants to reveal his dastardly plot face to face.

Only Edward’s smile is strangely soft now. Excited, yes. But not gloating.

“And wine, of course,” he answers. “Oh and it goes without saying that I expect you to come alone. If I find out you’ve given my location to one of your so called friends, and trust me I will find out, there’ll be nothing but a cold meal in an empty room waiting for you when you get there.”

“And… that’s all?”

“That’s all,” Edward nods. No threats. No hostages.

“Wait, so… you’re… _asking me_ to spend the evening with you, to _have dinner_ with you and…” The tension in Lucius’ gut melts away as new understanding dawns on him. “And if I don’t, there will be no repercussions, beyond my own… loss?”

“Umm-hmm,” Edward hums, nodding again.

“Edward…” Lucius starts and Edward, still smiling, lifts his eyebrows at him expectantly. “Has this… all of this…” He waves a hand. “Is this supposed to be… a _date?_ ”

In lieu of an answer Edward merely curls his lips to one side.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” he says, the legs of his stool squeaking across the floor as he pushes to his feet. “And Foxy,” he adds. “You’re always… _foxy_ –” A throaty chuckle. “But the occasion calls for a certain… extravagance, don’t you think?” He brushes a finger down the woollen curve of Lucius’ shoulder, pausing to pluck away lint, or pretending to for effect. “Wear something fancy,” he concludes, lifting his hand to adjust the angle of his hat as he turns to leave.

A pause.

Then, in a rush –

“Actually, do you own a top hat?”

Before Lucius can even begin to contemplate this Edward is waving both hands before his vigorously shaking face in dismissal.

“No, no, never mind,” he mutters, cheeks flushing – a soft pink that might have been charming on him under different circumstances. “It wouldn’t suit you.” He takes a moment to fasten one of his jacket buttons while his evident, though inexplicable, excitement over the imagined headdress dies down. Once done he puffs out a breath and nods at Lucius. “I’ll see you soon.”

His confidence makes Lucius, body already shaking a little with relief at the thought that all this is soon to be over, uncertain of himself.

“You’re so sure I’ll come?” he asks, fearing a last minute incentive, something that will invalidate the freedom Edward insists he has.

Edward’s eyes grow dark, pupils dilating, smile twisting into something hungry and wolfish and Lucius realises the phrasing of his question may have been unwise.

“Of course you will,” Edward tells him, his matter-of-fact tone treading that fine line between threat and promise. “You’ll come tonight. And any other night I ask. And you’re going to take every opportunity to play with me that you can. You know why?” He bends down, one hand gripping the edge of the bar for balance while he holds himself still, breath hot on Lucius’ cheek. “Because you can deny it all you want, but you’re _my hero_ , Foxy.” He licks his lips, leaning closer and there’s a yearning in his eyes as they rise up. One that, despite the physical intimacy, Lucius does not find erotic. Or not – not _only_ erotic. There’s something – Lucius is _sure_ there’s something more. That painful, desperate _need_ for him he’d seen in Ed before. “And me?” Edward surges forward, lips skimming Lucius’ jaw to stop at his ear. “I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.” A breath. “And you know it.”

Then he’s gone and the absence feels cold.

“Besides,” Lucius hears Edward offer behind him, voice light and airy again. “I’m making your favourite. Pasta Puttanesca.”

“That’s not my favourite,” Lucius mutters without turning, too shaky to face the man for the moment.

“Yes it is,” Edward counters. “You just don’t eat it anymore because it reminds you of that night in Paris.”

The whole world seems to tilt on its axis then, everything spinning until Lucius is too dizzy to tell which way is up. Because it’s impossible. _Impossible_ for him to know _._ That night was private. Secret. And Lucius knows well how to guard his secrets. How _can_ he know?

And from the dark, paranoid recesses of his mind a worse thought – this secret is mild, borne of sentiment. Lucius has worse. Much worse. So the real question is - what _else_ does Edward know?

He’s so consumed by his thoughts that Lucius almost misses Edward’s parting words.

“Mine’ll taste better,” he says and it’s unclear if he means the pasta. “Promise.”

Still too paralysed to move, Lucius knows Edward has left the building by the sigh and sagging shoulders of the bartender.  In fact the whole bar seems to fill with sounds of relief – shuffles, heavy breaths, a smatter of laughter, and soon the gentle hum of chatter that Lucius hadn’t realised was missing until it returns.

Only he remains unaffected by the gradual flow of relaxation, heart still pounding, muscles straining with a tension that is, absurdly, greater than any he’d felt while actually in Edward’s presence. Fuelled by fearful, twisting, agonising indecision.

Just leave, he tells himself. It’s over. Go home. Go to bed.

Put the whole affair behind him.

He even reaches for his gloves to do just that, but his wrist brushes the envelope as he moves and he stops.

Perhaps.

He could at least take it.

Even if he doesn’t plan to open it, he could turn it in to the GCPD. Lucius doesn’t doubt Edward truly will avoid capture tonight should anyone other than him attempt to follow where the missive leads, but it may hold some other clue – a lead Jim or Harvey could follow.

Although, considering how meticulous Edward had been at avoiding detection during his previous crimes, Lucius doubts this.

And taking it, even unopened, is still engaging.

Leaving it untouched would send a clearer message. Not of acceptance or rejection but of indifference. That should put an end to whatever relationship Edward thinks the two of them have – uproot the seed planted between them this evening before it takes hold. Nothing deflates an ego more than disinterest. Which is the whole point of the GCPD’s instructions.

Except.

Except, Lucius does wonder. What might be inside.

As bizarre, and sometimes macabre, as Edward’s clues had been before, there had been a logic to them that if he’s honest with himself Lucius has to admit he found –

_Intriguing_.

And so –

He is curious.

Curious what kind of challenge Edward has concocted this time.

A single riddle? A collection? A pictogram? A logic puzzle?

Perhaps he could open it. Just to see. Open it, read it and leave it behind. Surely that wouldn’t be so bad? It would still be a dismissal.

He reaches a hand, but grasps the stem of his glass at the last minute instead, finally taking a sip of the so called ‘better than scotch’ cocktail as a means of procrastination. It’s delicious, much to his chagrin, and he keeps drinking as he considers, fingers tapping across the paper, turning the same arguments over and over in his mind in a maddening circle, until before he knows it the glass is empty.

With nothing left to distract him, Lucius is forced to consider the one thing all his deliberations have avoided – the one thing he is beginning to suspect his deliberating has been an elaborate, subconscious attempt to avoid.

He _wants_ to go. He _wants_ to spend his evening with Edward Nygma.

This is ridiculous, he thinks, shaking his head. What does any of it matter anyway? He has orders. Instructions put in place for good reason. Why consider himself above the rules?

The wisest course of action is just to leave the thing.

_Wise, perhaps. But is it right?_

The warm, caring sound of the imagined voice makes Lucius smile. His conscience always sounds like Thomas these days, although this is different, this time he can almost picture the man next to him, filling the space Edward has so recently vacated –

It would be just like before, when they used to stop in for a drink after work. Lucius would be much like he is now. Thomas would be down to his shirt sleeves. His expensive jacket would be crumpled on the floor beneath his stool, tie stuffed in one of the pockets, and the top buttons of his shirt undone with a sigh. He may have worn the trappings of the rich with enviable ease, but was always happy to shed them at the nearest opportunity.

Then he’d look Lucius in the eye in that frank, unassuming way of his.

_Didn’t the Board of Directors teach us that?_ he might say. _All those times they told us what would and wouldn’t be wise. It wouldn’t be wise to challenge them. It wouldn’t be wise to try and expose them. Wisdom isn’t everything. What about morality, Lucius? What about ethics? What about compassion?_

Some of the phrases sound familiar – memories patched together. Perhaps that’s why the image is so strong. Lucius can practically _see_ Thomas shaping the words, eyes burning with that boundless inner fire that had always been such an inspiration.

“What should I do, then?” Lucius would ask, if Thomas were here. Dismissing the nervous glances from the bartender to focus on his friend. “What is the right thing?”

But Thomas would just lean back and shake his head, fixing Lucius with one of his kind and gentle smiles. And Lucius would smile back, despite the sombre nature of the discussion, because he never could resist Thomas smiling at him.

_I can’t tell you that,_ he’d say – or this version of him would. Memory can only provide a limited template for how the man might respond to present situations. _Every man has to decide for themselves what they believe is right. Weigh up what they want against what is best for others._

“But what I want _is_ what’s best for him,” Lucius would protest. “I mean – I don’t mean I know best, I just – I want to help him. I want him to get better. I want – I want to save him.”

This rhetoric is growing uncomfortably like Edward’s assessment of him.

But no. No. Lucius shakes his head. That’s a false comparison. _Argumentum ad logicam_. Edward’s claims had been extreme – the truth is more temperate. Yes, Lucius wants to save him, but _for Edward’s sake_ , not his own.

Doesn’t he?

_I know you do._ Might Thomas lean closer now? Rest a hand on his arm? It’s a bit intimate perhaps, but he was always generous with his affections. _You want what’s right. That’s what made you stand out at the company. That’s how I knew I could trust you. That’s why I know you’ll make the right decision._

“But it’s dangerous. He’s dangerous.” Lucius presses a finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the growing mental fog this debate has precipitated. “I’d be disobeying orders. If I fail, I could lose my job. Worse.”

_You think I don’t know the price of failure?_

Lucius gasps as he opens his eyes, imagining a bloom of red soaking through Thomas’ shirt, obscenely bright against the white, dripping over the stool and onto the floor.

Then he blinks and there’s just Thomas again. Whole and perfect.

_No one said doing the right thing would be easy. If it was, everyone would do it._

He remembers Thomas’ laughter perfectly – the musical rise and fall of it, the way it made him warm all over, that feeling that nothing in the world could be so very dark if there was still the capacity for such joy.

Still smiling, but with his gaze growing firmer now, Thomas would nod to the envelope.

And somehow, when Lucius looks back to it, it doesn’t seem such a terrible dilemma anymore.

_We know, better than anyone, that those in a position of authority can’t always be trusted. They don’t always act in a person’s best interest._

Lucius nods along. Yes. That’s true enough. And even if those in power mean well, it would be foolish of him to blindly follow orders when circumstances negate them. 

_I can’t be there to fight that corruption anymore. So it’s up to you to finish what we started. To save the people this city has turned its back on._

_You’re the only one who can, Lucius. Please._

_For me._

He doesn’t have a hat.

But all Wayne Enterprise employees were required to own formal wear, as company functions were never casual, and Lucius still has his tuxedo.

Home isn’t far – it would take twenty minutes, if that, to get back and change. Half an hour at most. With the sun not fully set yet this leaves plenty of time to puzzle out Edward’s clue and track him down before the hour gets too late.

The tux will fit, Lucius keeps himself in good enough shape to be confident of that, although he can barely recall the last time he wore it. A charity gala years ago, he thinks, though he couldn’t say with any certainty as to the cause.

What he does remember is how Thomas had guffawed when Lucius praised him for his well folded bowtie and how Martha had reached up, the long arm of her sequined red dress sparkling under the light of the chandelier, and yanked at the fabric, exposing the elastic. She and Thomas shared a look then, a private joke, before she let the tie ping back, warm red coated lips lifting in a sly but loving smile. Both of them so beautiful. So full of hope and promise. So alive.

He can’t let their death be in vain. He can’t. God knows, he owes them that. Owes them more. More than he can ever repay now.

But he can do this.

Thomas knew that sometimes you had to break the rules for the greater good and if he could do it, day in and day out, then Lucius can do it tonight. He might not have the power to save the city, like Thomas had, but he is capable of saving at least one man.

The crime and corruption perpetuated by his family company had been Thomas’ cross to bear, an evil he’d help create and was in turn his responsibility to cure.

Is Lucius not responsible for The Riddler in much the same way?

When Lucius glances up again, Thomas is gone. Though of course, he’d never been there. He was just a figment, Lucius reminds himself, conjured to help him think, and his absence brings resolution and a clarity of purpose that Lucius marks with a brisk nod.

He seeks out the bartender again, intending to pay for the drink now as he’s finished it. Perhaps offer to cover the cost of Edward’s as well, with a sizable tip, since it was his fault The Riddler was here at all. But the man gives Lucius a strange look when called, as though it really is Lucius himself who unnerves him this time.

“Please, sir,” he says. “I think it would be best if you just leave. And perhaps… perhaps don’t come back.” He hurries away without waiting for a response, but Lucius has too much else on his mind to feel offended by the slight.

He stands and grabs his gloves and phone, swaying a little as he replaces them in his pockets. The alcohol in Edward’s concoction must have been stronger than he thought.

Then he takes a breath, grasps the envelope and rips it open.


	2. Somewhere Just Beyond My Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edward continues to disrupt Lucius' evening plans, even in the comfort of his own home.  
> [Set directly before 3.17. Chapter title from Bonnie Tyler's "Holding Out for a Hero," because I'm a sucker for a running theme]  
> [If, like me, you don't speak science, (√-1)(23)∑(∏) means "I 8 SUM pi" - my thanks to [@vampirebillionaire](http://vampirebillionaire.tumblr.com/) for the help!]

“What are you doing here?!”

Only in Gotham, Lucius reflects, can you be confronted by this question in your own home and have the demand seem reasonable.

“Well,” he starts, hesitant, glancing over his shoulder at the door behind him just in case he’s somehow unlocked and entered a completely different apartment. Stranger things have happened in this city. But no, it’s his own door, three tier locking system clicking into place as the backward shove he’d given it on the way in draws it closed. “I live here,” he offers. “So, there’s that.”

“No, no, _no!_ ” Edward Nygma insists from the far side of the chrome kitchen island, right hand braced against the black marble surface, left wafting in Lucius’ general direction. Lucius might have dismissed the gesture as fruitless petulance if it wasn’t for the gun in Edward’s hand. “You can’t be here!”

“I – really can,” Lucius counters, keeping his voice level and slowly lifting his hands above his shoulders as a sign of surrender. Not that he thinks Ed would kill him – considering their last few encounters Lucius is actually quite confident he wouldn’t. But it has been almost a month since their so called ‘date’ and a lot can change in that time, especially when your mental state is questionable. And besides, last time had proven that Ed was not beyond putting Lucius’ general health at risk if nothing else. “I have a key, see?” Lucius adds, giving the keyring still clasped between his gloved fingers a gentle shake so the keys on it jingle.

With his hat absent and his hair dishevelled, several locks escaping the usual sleeked back affect Ed has favoured since leaving Arkham, the other man seems more crazed than usual at the moment. It makes Lucius wonder if Ed’s faculties might be compromised for some reason, enough for him to have mistaken his surroundings. A gentle reminder might be all that’s necessary to calm him down.

“No!” Ed snaps again. Then – “I mean yes. I mean –” He touches the ball of the hand grasping the gun to his forehead and that’s when it strikes Lucius how curious it is that it’s Ed’s left hand holding the weapon when he knows for a fact the man is right handed. The now trademark green gloves are conspicuously absent as well. “You can’t be here _now!_ ” Ed clarifies, stretching his arm out to hold the gun steady, though he breathes hard through his nose as he does, as if the stillness is an effort. “It’s Friday,” he pants. “You finish work at Eight. Drive five blocks to Pauli’s Diner. You order the special and a slice of pecan pie, which you eat very slowly because you think it’s the best pie in the city. You’re wrong, by the way.” He stops to take a couple of breaths before rushing on. “You’ll stay there half an hour, maybe longer if the waitress has time to flirt with you because you’re too polite to tell her you’re not interested. You drive home the long way, past the docks, because you like the view. You don’t get back until approximately nine thirty, nine at the earliest. You’re like _clockwork_ , Foxy, it’s one of your more attractive qualities. Being here now makes no sense at all! _None!_ ”

This last is spat with such ferocity Ed actually shakes from the force of it and Lucius waits for the tremors to pass, knowing it will be useless attempting to reason while the other man is so worked up. Instead he just stands quietly so as to minimise the risk of increasing Ed’s ire. 

It’s only once Ed’s breathing has evened out, lips twisting in a silent scowl, that Lucius speaks again.

“It’s ten o’clock, Edward,” he says.

For a couple of seconds Ed continues to glare at him. Then the angry V of his eyebrows begins to lift and a flash of uncertainty crosses his face.

His eyes dart from Lucius to his gun and back. And again. And once more. Until Lucius realises Ed is not looking to the gun at all but at the watch on his left wrist. In looking himself Lucius sees the watch face is smashed on one side, hairline cracks snaking out from the spot and over hands that a glance or two reveal have fixed in position.

When Ed’s gaze falls back on him Lucius grips his keys to his palm and points to the wall opposite the kitchen. It takes a further nod for Ed to understand but eventually he turns his head and spies the clock hanging from the space above Lucius’ television, hands indicating that it is indeed ten pm, give or take a few minutes.

Silence.

Not knowing the nature of Ed’s current circumstance Lucius doesn’t trust the quiet. It could be good – Ed winding down from whatever had caused the frenzied state Lucius had walked in on. Or it could be dangerous – the pointing out of his error taken as a slight that demands recompense.

So Lucius breaks it.

“I was delayed coming back,” he explains, hoping that reassuring Ed the Friday evening timetable he’d outlined was accurate – unnervingly so, but Lucius can fret about that later – will lessen any frustration he might have about needing correction as to the current time. “There was a road block. Something to do with Gotham Merchants Bank…”

A flicker of a smile touches the corner of Ed’s lips and the puzzle pieces start to fall into place.

“But you wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose?” Lucius adds.

Ed’s fingers shift as he turns back, adjusting his hold on the weapon, but the movement doesn’t worry Lucius because Ed is grinning now, wide and relaxed.

“Well,” Ed smirks, left shoulder – though _only_ his left shoulder – rising in a shrug. “It seems I’ve lost some time since arriving here. No matter. You’ll just have to wait while I finish up.”

“Finish up what?”

“My business.”

Lucius sighs, letting his arms drop back to his sides. If Ed is teasing then he knows the immediate danger has passed, although the man’s dedication to being enigmatic is a menace in itself.

“Don’t worry, Foxy,” Ed assures him. “It’s nothing untoward. I promise.”

“Hmmm,” Lucius nods. Sardonic. “Like you promised my drink wasn’t poisoned the other night?”

This makes Ed hum as well – a rumbling chuckle in the back of his throat.

“Now now, that wasn’t poison,” he berates. “Just a little pick-me-up. My own recipe. Did wonders for me after our dear Mayor’s disappearance.”

There’s not a hint of the struggle he’d shown when mentioning Penguin before. Though it’s telling, perhaps, that he uses the man’s title this time and not his name.

“Well, your ‘pick-me-up’ proved to be a powerful hallucinogen,” Lucius answers, brittle disapproval lacing his words. “If it’s all the same to you I’d prefer if the introduction of non-poisonous substances into my system not become a habit between us.”

As cordial as their meeting at the bar had been in comparison to Ed’s interrogation of himself and Bruce at the Asylum, in many ways drugging his drink the other evening had been worse. At least he and Bruce had been forewarned the gas was coming, even if Ed had exaggerated its properties, so they could brace themselves. Not knowing he’d been dosed, and with the drug dampening his senses so even the most extraordinary of things appeared reasonable, it had taken Lucius hours to comprehend what was happening that night. To recognise that sharing a table with a persistent vision of his dead former employer was _not_ usual for evening out, even accounting for the influence of moral anxiety that came from spending time with a dangerous, possibly deranged criminal.  

Not that Thomas’ inclusion had been an unpleasant addition to the evening. On the contrary, Lucius has only positive memories of the experience. The food, as promised, had been delectable, the chosen wine the perfect accompaniment and Edward had been a polite and dutiful host, topping up Lucius’ glass whenever it got low but never pushing him to drink more. He’d even taken it upon himself to drive Lucius home when the meal was over, to be sure he got back safe, leaving with a courteous nod goodbye at the front door to his apartment building. As for the rest – they’d talked. And they’d laughed. Discussion had ranged from old studies, new scientific theories from journals they’d both subscribed to at one time or another and the different gameshows they enjoyed. To all intents and purposes it truly had been a date. And with both of them steadfastly avoiding talking shop, and ‘Thomas’ watching over them offering, so it seemed to Lucius at the time, a personal endorsement of the proceedings, it had been easy to forget the reality of the situation. Even when Ed asked him riddles, which of course he had, the only pause this had given Lucius was to think how much pleasanter it was having time to consider his answers without being under duress.

But the enjoyment weighs heavy on Lucius now.

That Ed had done nothing to take advantage of his compromised state does not excuse the man for drugging Lucius in the first place. It was completely out of line. Albeit, Lucius concedes, hardly out of character. If you’re trying to heal a sick snake, you shouldn’t be surprised if it bites.

Though knowing doesn’t stop the hurt.

And it’s not even the fact Ed felt the need to resort to the drug that troubles him. As unorthodox and unethical as it was Lucius can understand why Ed might have felt compelled to the act, believing Lucius would never consent to spend time with him otherwise. It’s the aftermath he’s struggling to come to terms with.

Because it’s impossible to tell, in retrospect, how much of the night had been real and how much had been manufactured. The drug cast all his thoughts and feelings into doubt. Had his happiness come from the company, or the chemicals? Does the lingering fondness he feels spring from his own heart, or is it a side effect of his intoxication? Was the logic that led him to Edward that night built on sound judgement, or was the drug at work even then? That last look the bartender had given him before he’d run home to change suggests the latter – viewed in hindsight the next morning Lucius had begun to suspect his invocation of Thomas to debate the matter of Edward’s envelope may not have been as internal as he thought.

All of which has led him to the disquieting conclusion that he may no longer be able to trust himself in regards to Edward Nygma.

And how can you possibly help a man you can’t trust yourself with?

“Duly noted,” Ed smiles, unrepentant. “You did seem distracted during dinner. I hope whoever you saw had something illuminating to impart.”

Curious.

“What makes you think it was some _one?_ ”

Ed sucks in his lips, like he’s swallowed something sour and wants to take it back.

What had he told Lucius in the car after the business with Bullock and the police cadets? He’d been trying to ‘hold on’ to Penguin for a bit longer? Lucius had thought he’d meant metaphorically, seeking through his murder spree to find someone or something to fill Penguin’s _role_. But if he’d really been on the same drugs he’d slipped Lucius then perhaps Cobblepot had been with him in a more literal fashion. As much as hallucinations can be called literal.

“Intuition,” Ed answers, transparently evasive. “But enough pleasantries, I need to concentrate.”

With that he dismisses Lucius in order to focus on removing his jacket. A task made far more difficult than necessary by his refusal to relinquish his hold on the gun and by the way he winces whenever he shifts or touches his right arm. Several times it’s clear he is considering putting the weapon down, reaching it towards the top of a white box with red labelling positioned beside where Lucius now sees Ed has deposited his hat and gloves on the kitchen island. A box Lucius is disturbed to recognise as his own First Aid kit, usually found in his bathroom cabinet. But every time Ed balks at the last minute and chooses to keep the gun in hand. Eventually he somehow manages, with much huffing and hissing, to remove the right half of the jacket, leaving the green fabric to slide down his back and hang behind his left shoulder.

The shirt sleeve this exposes makes Lucius gasp because it is absolutely soaked in blood – thick and dark over the shoulder and fading into lighter spotting along the arm, stark against the remaining patches of white in a way that only increases Lucius’ horror.

“ _Jesus,_ Ed _._ ”

The admonishment escapes him without warning, like a choking breath after a punch.

In contrast, Ed himself appears indifferent to his injury, remaining focused on his disrobing. He tries, briefly, to transfer the gun to his usually dominant hand, but the attempt is met with a weak spasm down his right arm and a tight-lipped groan, so he finally follows through with setting the weapon down while he shakes off the remaining sleeve.

“Surely you need a hospital?”

Leaving his jacket to drop to the floor behind him Ed snatches the weapon back.

“Use your head, Foxy!” he barks, stabbing the gun towards the body part in question. “I’m a wanted man, I can’t go to a hospital. That should be obvious to anyone with even half a brain cell. I just –” He swallows, losing focus, and Lucius understands now that his distraction is a simple matter of _pain_. “I just need somewhere secure to rest for a while. Clean myself up. Maybe…” He glances at the First Aid kit. “Maybe some bandages…”

“That’s a lot of blood,” Lucius says, softly because he doesn’t want Ed to take the observation as a quarrel. “You might need more than bandages.”

This is met with a hiss, Ed’s nose scrunching up, lips curling, but Lucius can’t tell if it means Ed is dismissing or acknowledging his warning. Or maybe just fighting more pain.

“It looks worse than it is,” Ed mutters, though he turns visibly pale after a glance at his sopping sleeve and hurriedly averts his eyes. “And if I do need… greater medical attention, well then… I’ll deal with it.”

“How?” Lucius presses, concern turning to frustration at Ed’s refusal to recognise the gravity of his situation. This injury isn’t up for debate, he can’t downplay it or argue it away like he does with his mental sickness, it’s a clear physical ailment that requires immediate attention. “Are you planning to stitch yourself up?”

“If I have to!” Ed answers, a twinge of panic creeping into his voice, which is not good at all. An elevated heart rate will increase blood flow, making him lose even more even faster. “It’s not like I don’t have practice,” he adds with a strange, broken laugh. “My father saw to that when the nurses started asking quest – starting asking quest –” Ed’s eyelids start to flicker, voice growing slow and deep. “Quest – tions…”

His head rolls back and round in a lazy half circle, eyelids drooping, and Lucius rushes forward without thinking, reaching Ed’s side just as he starts to fall.

“Whoa…” he breathes, left arm curling about Ed’s waist while his right hand catches the other man’s falling wrist. “Okay,” he adds, nodding to himself as Ed swoons against his chest, bloodied arm pressing into Lucius’ coat and over the patterned silk of his tie. “Okay.” After a deep breath to calm his nerves, and stop himself thinking through all the risks that come from running towards a man aiming a gun at your head, Lucius reaches into Ed’s hand and carefully tugs the weapon from his slackening fingers.

Not wanting to leave the thing lying about still loaded Lucius keeps hold of it, gripping tight around the barrel and well away from the trigger. Then he hooks his arm about Ed’s front and starts to move them both out of the kitchen.

“Come on…”

Ed gives an unintelligible response, more moan than words, and while this proves he’s not unconscious Lucius suspects he’s not exactly compos mentis either.

It takes a great deal of shuffling and coercion, with Lucius effectively dragging Ed most of the way, but eventually they reach the small dining table Lucius uses to mark the boundary between his kitchen and living area. He eases Ed into one of the chairs – grateful, as Ed falls back, eyes closing as he finally succumbs to the faint, that he chose the high-backed ones and not the smaller, black stools the salesman had advised as a better fit to his modernist décor.

Now he’s closer to the injury Lucius can see the ragged tear over the shoulder of Ed’s shirt that denotes its origin and can only assume the shoulder of his jacket must be similarly ruined. This is a relief, because the rip lacks the precision of a deliberate strike, suggesting an accident – Ed had caught himself on the edge of something sharp perhaps. As such, Ed’s assessment that it looks worse than it is may not be unwarranted. An accidental cut is likely to have been blocked better by the layers of clothing than a deliberate assault, where the assailant would have been aiming to pierce through the barriers.

In the quiet of Ed’s unconsciousness that follows Lucius looks from Ed’s limp form to the gun still gripped tight in his own hand, then finally to the patches of blood soaked from Ed’s arm into the wool and silk of what were once a favourite coat and tie.

He sighs. 

Very well then.

When Ed starts awake twenty or so minutes later with a garbled 'whahuh?' Lucius is soaping his hands at the kitchen sink, stripped to navy blue shirt sleeves that are folded up well past his elbows so he can scrub all the way along his forearms. His coat and tie have been reluctantly disposed of in a plastic bag under the sink, along with his gloves which it turns out were bloodied too along the way, but his watch, thank goodness, had been protected by his sleeve and is now safe in his pocket.

"Where-?" Ed calls, voice croaky.

"It's right beside you on the table," Lucius answers, turning off the faucet and grabbing the fresh towel he'd set aside on the counter to pat himself dry. From behind him comes the sound of metal scraping metal as Ed reclaims the gun Lucius had left for him, but Lucius is more disheartened than proud at having correctly anticipated Ed's waking desire. "The bullets, however," he adds as he turns. "Are not." Ed tries to twist round in his chair to face him but the effort must put too much strain on his bad arm because he gives up almost at once, dropping back against the frame with a grunt and thrusting the gun away from him. Though Lucius can't see his face he can imagine the pout it must hold and finds himself smiling at the role reversal. It's not unpleasant, he reflects as he grips either side of the metal bowl of water on the sideboard, to have Edward Nygma under his control for once. "You shouldn't need them anyway," he continues, walking slowly round the kitchen island and back to the table, careful not to let any water drip. "You're in no condition to be wielding a weapon." Ed just glares at him as Lucius puts the bowl down next to the now open First Aid kit he’d moved while Ed was sleeping. "And I can't in good conscience let you patch yourself up either. You're clearly too light headed to focus, god knows what damage you'll do to yourself."

"Foxy, if you've called an ambulance, when I expressly told you I don't -!"

"Relax." Lucius holds up a palm, stemming Ed's panic before it blossoms into a full tantrum. "I haven't called anyone." There's something touching in the way Ed does relax at this, sagging back in the chair without further protest. The heady mix of genuine betrayal and rampant paranoia Ed has suffered must have made trust a difficult concept for him and yet it seems Lucius has earned it well enough. "Now take off your shirt."

It takes a lot of self control not to smirk at the way Ed’s eyes pop at the instruction. To help restrain himself, Lucius diverts his attention to scraping the table’s sole other chair around the grey edge of the tabletop and sitting down at Ed’s side, before reaching into the First Aid kit and pulling out a couple of latex gloves. Ed follows his every move in silence, tensing against the back of the chair, and while Lucius could explain further, he chooses not to. It’s – satisfying. Watching Ed squirm. Besides, he’s an intelligent man, he’ll figure it out.

Lucius assumes the gloves will give his intentions away, but Ed continues to eye him wearily as Lucius fixes them over both hands, the powered blue vivid against his dark skin and a horrible clash to his shirt. Retrieving his glasses is viewed with equal suspicion, Ed watching Lucius take them from his shirt pocket and slide them on with the nervous quiet of someone witnessing a gun being loaded. It’s not until Lucius draws the bowl close to him and drops a clean cloth from the medical kit into the water that the lines etched across Ed’s face begin to clear.

“Buy a guy a drink first, won’t you?” he murmurs with a weak smile, reaching his good hand to the buttons on his waistcoat.

Lucius rolls his eyes, but it’s merely an attempt to hide his own smile. In truth he’s impressed at Ed’s bravado. They speak of him like a weak, annoying, spindly thing at the GCPD, but there’s a strength and a power to Edward Nygma that deserves respect, even if he does channel it in unsavoury directions.

The waistcoat doesn’t prove too taxing, but removing the shirt is another matter. For one fleeting moment Lucius considers letting Ed suffer through it – a little payback for all the suffering the man has inflicted on others. But the winces and high pitched, bitten back whimpers wear down his resolve and soon enough Lucius is leaning forward to help out, drawing Ed’s hands away and finishing the buttons himself. The left sleeve pulls free without incident, but the torn fabric on the right has matted with the blood around the wound and removing it is a far slower, torturous ordeal, with a lot of tensing and jolting and a litany of ow-ow-ow-ing from Ed that Lucius’ hushes distractedly as he works.

After an age the shirt is finally removed and Ed is left looking a sorry sight – bare-chested, shivering and horribly pale besides the red, like some cliché horror movie victim.

Not wanting to dwell on Ed’s vulnerabilities, of which his physical condition is but one Lucius reminds himself, Lucius turns his focus back to the First Aid kit. After a moment of searching he draws out a small packet of pills.

“Have you taken anything?” he asks.

“No.”

Lucius stops to glare at Ed over the rim of his glasses.

“Are you _sure?_ ” he persists. As recent discoveries seem to imply Ed has become a more than casual hobbyist of pharmacology it seems prudent to press this point.

But when Ed responds without a quip, just a sombre nod, it feels safe to assume he’s telling the truth.

“Alright. Then take these.” Lucius pops two of the pills out onto the table. “They’re not exactly morphine I’m afraid, but they’re all I have.”

Ed prods one of the capsules with his finger.

“They’re not exactly over the counter medication either,” he notes, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“No, they’re not,” is all Lucius offers, in no mood to satisfy Ed’s curiosities. Or perhaps he just wants to be the mysterious one tonight, to let Ed fantasise some exciting, convoluted reason for why he has top shelf prescription painkillers in his medical kit and taste, just for a moment, what it’s like to be larger than life. Though he suspects the prosaic truth of the matter is plain enough – that working for one of the richest men in the city had its perks and Lucius likes to be prepared. “Do you need water?” he adds but Ed shakes his head.

With a practiced gesture Ed downs the pills one by one with no sign of discomfort at swallowing them dry, making Lucius wonder if his drug taking was really the one off after Penguin’s murder Ed had implied or if it’s become a more regular habit. A troubling thought. Ed can be hyper enough on his own, adding drugs to the mix is a recipe for disaster.

But Lucius can’t worry about that now when there are more pressing concerns.

So without another word he draws the wet cloth from the bowl, wrings it out and, taking Ed’s hand in his own to hold him still, begins to wash away the blood. Lucius moves methodically from Ed’s wrist and up in slow and gentle swipes and dabs, stopping only to clean the cloth when it gets too messy. Each return to the bowl stains the water darker and darker while, inch by inch, the white of Ed’s skin is revealed.

Ed accepts the ministrations in matching silence, although his breath quickens when Lucius reaches the wound itself. Yet even then Ed refuses to cry out, biting down hard on his cheek instead. Could be pride kicking in, although Ed had been unconcerned with voicing his pain earlier. More likely, Lucius thinks, it’s Ed making a game out of things. Simple rules – silence wins, if he makes a noise the game is over. Fair enough if it helps him cope. The painkillers will only numb so much.

“You’re right,” Lucius says once the wound is clean. “It’s not as bad as it looked. But you will need stitches.” He traces the edge of the exposed gash with two blue fingertips to get a sense of how wide it is. “And no matter how proficient you are, you can’t sew this up yourself,” he continues, following the ragged line from the tip of Ed’s collar bone and over his shoulder. “It stops all the way back here.” On reaching the end a little way down Ed’s shoulder blade Lucius presses gently just beyond the edge of torn skin. Ed shivers at the touch, but angled as he is to face Ed’s back Lucius can’t see the other man’s expression. “How did this even happen?”

It’s not a question Lucius expects an answer to. He’s asking himself, really, as a way to focus on solving the puzzle of the thing. When Ed does reply it feels a bit like cheating.

“I had to climb through a smashed window. In my haste I… miscalculated how much of the glass had been cleared. Turns out there was a significant portion remaining at the top.”

“Enough to rip through two layers?”

“Reinforced.” 

“Ah. Yes. That’ll do it.”

He doesn’t ask why Ed was climbing through the broken window.

“Well then,” Lucius nods, removing his soiled gloves and shuffling back round in his chair so he can drop the balled up latex into the medical kit and remove a clean set. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

With new gloves in place Lucius removes a suture pack from the kit and rips open the seal to access the threaded needle.

“I knew you’d have what I needed,” Ed smiles. “You’re such a boy scout, Foxy.”

“Never, actually,” Lucius answers as he draws his chair closer. “But this is Gotham,” he continues, fixing his glasses tighter against his face so as not to risk them slipping and breaking his concentration. “You learn soon enough that if you want to survive in this city, you need to be prepared for anything.”

“That’s true.”

Placing his left hand over Ed’s upper arm for support Lucius moves the needle beside the broken skin and pauses there, determining how best to begin. Which is when Ed lets out a sudden –

“Ah!”

Glancing up, Lucius finds Ed with his eyes closed in a grimace, panting fast, and Lucius scans him quickly up and down, worried some other ailment he’s been unaware of may have come to light. But no, the rest of Ed is just as before.

“I haven’t started yet,” Lucius says, dry. If this is another game it’s a tiresome one.

“I know, I know.” Ed nods multiple times in response, eyes still shut. “I’m just… practicing…”

His voice grows strained towards the end and Lucius regrets his disapproval because it’s clear the anxiety is no affectation. Ed is not trying to exasperate, his bravado is simply wearing thin and Lucius can understand that. He’s been stitched up himself in the past, more than once, so he knows that unhappy sensation of pain on pain, of how even under anesthetic and knowing what’s coming you still resist, still brace yourself. And Ed does not have the luxury of anesthetic here.

On impulse Lucius tucks the needle up between his middle and index finger so he can flatten his palm against Ed’s palpitating chest. This makes Ed gasp, eyes popping open, but Lucius expected as much and waits for the moment to pass and Ed’s wandering gaze to find his.

“Take a breath,” he says when their eyes meet, breathing in slow along with Ed, and out again. Their next breaths also synchronise and Lucius holds the gaze until Ed’s deeper breathing starts to lag behind him, feeling the other man’s heartbeat beneath his palm continue to slow. “Better?”

“Um-hmm.” Ed sucks in his bottom lip as he nods. It’s a sheepishness Lucius doesn’t feel warranted given the circumstance, so he offers a smile to try and mitigate it.

The slow, tiny smile Ed makes in return feels like a victory. Not just against Ed’s current apprehension but because it’s the first time any communication between them has felt wholly _real,_ as opposed to part of a wider performance. Ed was really scared here, Lucius was really comforting and this is a moment of real affection.

It’s nice.

“Okay,” Lucius nods, still smiling. Hoping to make this warmth between them last. “Let’s try again.”

He’s just pulling his hand back to readjust his hold on the needle when a mark across Ed’s skin catches his eye. He wonders if it’s some kind of unusual birthmark at first, only it’s too smooth and too white. A closer look proves it a scar, or rather two scars crisscrossing to make a shaky X. One of them is only a thin line, about the length of his thumb, while the other is longer and thicker and pinker. The shape is too unusual for them to have been from a single wound, so Lucius suspects they were made at different times. The larger one came after most likely and its darker, wider surface suggests the cut may have been sewn with a less even, less experienced hand.

And now he’s looking the rest of the scarring jumps out at him – three more down Ed’s side, one that curves around his navel and a couple of small white circles on the other side of his chest. These last look familiar, but Lucius can’t quite place why. Based on the size of them none of the wounds had been serious, but it’s a lot to have for one man. Especially a man who tends towards academia more than athletics, or at least used to. And most of them have that same thick darkness to them that speaks to a lack of professional training in their treatment.

“You really have done this before,” he notes, covering up one of the smooth circles with a fingertip, wondering if the texture might help him figure out their origin.

“What?” Ed mutters, chin dropping down as he angles his head to see what Lucius is talking about. “Oh. I. Yes. Yes, like I said.”

What had he said? Something about nurses. And his father. Lucius had put it down to meaningless prattle, a consequence of blood loss and shock and imminent unconsciousness, but –

Perhaps it wasn’t.

“You said that… your father taught you?” he queries, trying to piece it all altogether.

The harsh flurry of laughter Ed gives in response makes Lucius jump.

“Well. In a manner of speaking.”

Ed’s lips are flat when Lucius looks up again, all the warmth they’d shared snuffed out of him, and Lucius has only a moment of disappointment over the fact because at the same time he realises –

Cigarettes.

Those small, white circles are old cigarette burns.

Lucius has never seen the shape on skin before, which was why he hadn’t recognised them right away.

Despite Ed’s various unsavoury hobbies, it seems unlikely that smoking has ever been one of his vices. He works too hard to keep himself pristine – Lucius imagines the smell and the stains and the ash would be intolerable.

Deliberate self harm is not beyond the realms of possibility. But Lucius would expect a man as exacting as Ed to go about it in more methodical manner than such haphazard marking.

No. It doesn’t take a detective to see the truth here.

“Ed,” he starts, then falters, wanting to offer some sympathy but unsure how to go about it. “I –”

“Are we doing this or not?” Ed interrupts, nodding to his shoulder. “Because to be honest, Foxy, this waiting is growing tiresome.”

“I – yes, yes of course. Sorry,” Lucius mutters, glad of the prompt back to business. However much he wants to help Ed, the past is one thing he can’t fix. And, well, maybe he can’t fix much of the present either, but as he lines up the needle again he takes comfort from the fact he _can_ fix this. “On three?”

Still running on anger at the dredging up of unpleasant family history, Ed’s response is a short, sharp puff of exasperation. No doubt an eyeroll as well, though Lucius isn’t looking to see.

“ _Please_ ,” Ed drawls. “You think I don’t know that ‘on three’ means you’ll go on two or one in an effort to catch me unawares and prevent me from tensing? It’s such an obvious ploy, you might as well not even OUCH!”

Lucius ignores Ed’s cry and continues to pull the thread through the skin he’s just punctured and bring the needle round to start again.

“I’m sorry,” he says over Ed’s hiss as he pulls the next stitch through. “I didn’t mean I’d be counting aloud.”

When he flicks his eyes upward to check how Ed is taking the joke and the stitching he finds the man glaring at him, but without venom.

“Oh, bravo,” Ed concedes, reluctantly and dripping with sarcasm, and Lucius feels his lips flicker along with his pride at having successfully diverted Ed’s focus from his troubled childhood and overcome his fear about the needle all at once.

Just another ten or so stitches to get through, by his estimate.

His smile dips.

Oh joy.

“Cheer up,” Lucius tells Ed as he focuses back to what remains a daunting task, regardless of his early success. “The worst part’s over, right? All you need to do is hold still for a couple of minutes and we’ll be done.”

For the next few stitches Ed does just that, maintaining a silence Lucius reads as sullen, which suits him fine. If Ed is busy sulking over being tricked then he won’t fret as much about the discomfort.

“Where did –” A hiss. “Where did _you_ learn to do this anyway, Foxy?” Ed asks as Lucius nears the top of his shoulder. “Or was – ah! – minor surgery mandatory training for all – ow – all Wayne Enterprise employees?”

His voice is tight and Lucius assumes the sulk is over and the question is a bid for distraction.

“A few years ago the company funded a charity aid program for a village in Kenya,” he explains as he sews. If it’s going to help he sees no harm in telling this story. “We – I mean, they – paid for different supplies. Books for the school, food, clothing and also medicine and equipment for the local hospital. I was sent out there to oversee things.” He’s at the curve of Ed’s shoulder now and has to pause to shuffle his chair round. “When I got there there’d been an accident. A landslide I think? In any case, the hospital was completely ill-equipped to deal with it. Our supplies helped, but we hadn’t bought any extra staff. There was just me. So, I extended my stay for a couple of weeks and had the doctors there teach me a few basic skills. So I could help out with the non-urgent cases, give the team more time to focus on the victims most in need.”

Ed gives a breath of laughter.

“Of course,” he says. “I should have known your heroism wasn’t exclusive to Gotham.”

Having shifted all the way to Ed’s back now Lucius’ scowl of disapproval is wasted on the other man. 

“I told you,” he answers, shaking his head. “I’m no hero.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps you’re right.”

Lucius almost drops the needle. Is this Ed recognising and rejecting one of his flights of fancy? If he’s willing to admit to being wrong about Lucius, this could mark the beginning of him accepting other more serious delusions. Perhaps –

“You’re more like a saint.”

Lucius purses his lips in disappointment. But it’s his own fault this time – he shouldn’t have got his hopes up.

The subsequent giggle Ed makes only confirms his fanciful perspective is in full swing.

“Saint Lucius!” he exclaims, excitement making him shake and forcing Lucius to hold off further stitching. “It’s perfect! Just rolls off the tongue. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you now.”

It’s unclear if the giddiness is all Ed or if the painkillers are partly to blame, but either way Lucius is not going to stand for this new nonsense. One foolish nickname is enough.

“Please don’t,” he says. “If I must have a pseudonym, I prefer Foxy.”

“Hmmm. Who wouldn’t?” Ed mutters, stilling long enough that Lucius dares to resume sewing. “But seriously,” Ed continues without a flinch, proving the drugs have very much taken effect. “If anyone is deserving of sainthood, you are. I mean, look at you – you couldn’t even stand by and let a wanted criminal suffer! I bet you haven’t hurt another person in your _life_.”

“I’ve hurt people.”

That Ed was developing an obsessive fixation on him Lucius had resigned himself to – hoping to use it somehow to influence Ed for the better. But aggrandisement will do neither of them any good.

“Oh, I don’t mean on accident.” Ed waves his good arm dismissively, the movement forcing Lucius to abort his next stitch and wait until Ed has finished speaking before continuing, in case further more animated gestures are on the way. “Or when you were a kid who didn’t know better. Or like now, in the service of some greater good. I’m talking about conscious, wilful, malicious harm.” He’s so carried away by this point he tries to face Lucius head on and Lucius has to curl a warning hand around Ed’s good shoulder to keep him from twisting about completely. Nonplussed at being denied a face-to-face, Ed continues pontificating to the empty air at his side without so much as pausing for air. “Acting with the express desire to knowingly inflict pain on another. Or at _least_ conscious disregard for how your actions may affect others involved. Like… like…” Though Lucius is unable to see the whole of it, the viciousness in Ed’s smile is apparent. “Like robbing a bank, say, without a care as to how the livelihoods of the staff might suffer as a result. Or the poor, sweet customers the next day wanting to make a withdrawal. Just as an example.”

“A hypothetical example, I suppose?”

Ed gives a noncommittal hum in response, still smiling.

“I see,” Lucius nods. “So those are the two things are they? That prevent someone from being ordained?”

“From _deserving_ to be,” Ed corrects. “Let’s not kid ourselves that all those who gained their saintly title truly earned it.”

“Don’t you have to perform a miracle or something?”

“Foxy, in this city your goodness _is_ a miracle!”

“It’s really not,” Lucius presses.

“So humble,” Ed mocks.

“ _Really_ ,” Lucius insists, a growing knot in his gut turning his voice sharp. “I meet your criteria. I’m no saint.”

It’s a good job Lucius hadn’t started sewing again, because the scoff Ed gives ripples right across his back. In watching the movement Lucius notes a couple more scars marring Ed’s skin there as well, but he’s too distressed by Ed’s refusal to see reason on this issue of his moral character to spare more than a passing glance.

To be unfairly claimed a hero has been disquieting, but flattering too, as much as Lucius might try to smother the fact. But to be hailed as unimpeachable is outright slander and Lucius won’t stand for it.

He needs Ed to see how wrong he is.

A need that strikes deep, burning like a hot poker and fast growing unbearable.

“Oh come on, meet them _how?_ ” Ed smirks, infuriatingly self-assured. “I know you, you know. You’re just not capable of –”

“I had an affair.”

Both of them fall silent.

Equally shocked, it would seem, at the confession.

“What?”

If it wasn’t for this follow up from Ed Lucius might have doubted he’d made the claim at all – what was he thinking?

Well, he wasn’t thinking is the crux of it. He’d just – wanted Ed to see the _truth_ of him, not some phoney, sanctified persona. And since Ed was all about dramatics these days Lucius had, foolishly, resorted to dramatic tactics himself in an attempt to get through to the man. Ridiculous fire against fire logic. He should have known better.

He could try to deny it now, he supposes. Pass it off as some joke or a means of shutting Ed up. But –

Now it’s done, Lucius can’t deny how wretchedly _good_ it feels to have spoken the truth aloud. Like the pain of stretching a disused muscle. What a relief it is know this secret is finally out there and tangible, as opposed to the dark, heavy, misshapen thing that’s been churning away inside him for so long.   

So instead of a denial, he repeats himself. Slower this time to help the reality of it sink in.

“I had an affair. Or rather, I _was_ the affair.”

Ed remains, uncharacteristically, still and speechless, and Lucius takes advantage by starting to sew again, spilling more and more of himself as he goes.

“I took a good man from a loving wife and a doting child,” he explains. “A woman who was nothing but kind to me, who considered me a friend.” The memory of Martha’s smile cuts him, as always, like a dagger. “And a boy with… with more courage and more heart than most grown men I’ve known.” He’s nearly done now, just one more stitch. “And I did it _knowing_ I could never make him as happy as them. I knew.” That’s it. Finished. All that’s left is to tie up the loose thread and cut it free. “But I didn’t care.” He shuffles round and draws a pair of scissors from the kit. “As long as he was with me, that’s all that mattered.” He snips the thread and pulls away, stopping to give a nodding assessment of his handiwork before scooting the chair around so he can place the needle and scissors back on the table and meet Ed face-to-face again. “That qualifies, I believe, by your own definition, as conscious, wilful harm. So. Still think I’m a saint?”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but Ed’s silent, stony stare isn’t it.

“Did he love her, this mystery man?” Ed asks him, toneless.

“Of course he did. Completely,” Lucius answers. He’s come this far, no point holding back now. “She and his son… they meant the world to him, anyone could see that.”

There’s a wet clicking sound as Ed considers this, his tongue breaking from the roof of his mouth to wet his lips.

“No…” he mutters. “No…. You don’t… you don’t take a man from the woman he loves, you – you take _her_ from _him._ ” He shakes his head again. “Your shame is exaggerating your sins. An affair is a two way street.” Using his good arm, he taps the table with his index finger to emphasise his point. “Your man – his was the greater crime.”

“No,” Lucius answers, seeing where this is going. If Ed can’t have him spotless then it seems he’s willing to settle for Lucius as the lesser of evils. It’s sweet, in a way, how eager Ed is to stand up for him, but Lucius won’t allow it, not when it comes to this.

“Yes!” Ed insists. “He’s the one who left his family. Broke his vows. Betrayed his son.”

There’s a logical part of Lucius that understands this assumption, sees how Ed’s experience has woven together the narrative. He imagines a cruel father, like his own. Someone who’d tricked Lucius into a reluctant romance, like Ed believed Penguin had tried to do with him maybe. This would explain why the distinction between a man leaving his love and having his love taken from him had been so important. Not that Ed had ever claimed jealousy as the reason Penguin killed his lover, but Lucius can read between the lines – what else did Cobblepot have to gain from the crime if not Edward’s affections?

But logic has always been so easily overruled when it comes to Thomas and fury at hearing him besmirched wins out.

“ _NO!_ ” Lucius doesn’t realise he’s curled his hand into a fist until he’s banging it on the tabletop. The metal absorbs the shock with barely a sound, but the power behind the hit must show in his face because Ed jerks back, blinking. “It wasn’t like that! He was never complicit, _never_. If he’d known what was going on he would have put a stop to it at once. The fault was mine.”

Through the gasping breaths that follow as Lucius composes himself Ed’s mouth opens and closes, brow creasing deeper and deeper each time.

“But that – that doesn’t – that’s not –” Ed stutters. “How –?”

Then abruptly Ed is smiling again, face split with the grin, eyes glowing.

“A conundrum, I like it!” he beams. “Alright, Foxy, riddle… no… puzzle this out for me.” He leans in, adjusting his glasses at the corner with the same air of enthused purpose Bullock gives when rolling up his sleeves before an interrogation. “How does one have an affair with someone without them knowing?”

Lucius pulls away from Ed’s quizzical gaze and leans back in his chair, debating whether to continue. He’s said his piece, there’s really no need to break down the specifics. But then, there’d been no need to confess in the first place, so he reasons it makes little odds if he stops or keeps going.

“Affair is, perhaps, a tad melodramatic a term,” he admits, dropping his eyes to the table where he busies his hands tidying the needle back inside its broken packet.

“I’ll forgive it,” Ed says. “I do love a touch of melodrama.”

“It’s just… how I came to view things between us,” Lucius starts, rolling his gloves up at the wrists. “The bottom line was the same. I took up his time – so much time. Time he could have, _should_ have, spent with his family.” After dropping the gloves into the medical kit with the others Lucius takes a breath and lets it out in a heavy puff. “It was small things at first, inconsequential.” He rubs a hand across his face, staring into the distance as he remembers. “I’d make excuses to meet in his office, bring him paperwork that needed signing, no matter if it needed his signature or not. Back then it was…” He lifts the hand from his face and up in a one armed shrug. “Just a crush, I suppose. Innocent enough. But…” Bringing his hand back to his lips he moves his fingers intermittently across them and down to his chin as he continues, half thinking that if necessary he can always press his mouth shut to stop himself talking. Except he doesn’t. “After a while I started inventing reasons for him to come to me. Projects I insisted he needed to oversee personally. Demonstrations I’d orchestrate to run late. Then… Well, they put me in charge of Health and Safety. Training. And it was easy to schedule courses and insist they were mandatory. Make sure we were listed in the same groups. Money was no object of course, so we could attend training conferences anywhere. Outside the city. Outside the country. Some of those courses lasted for weeks.”

His eyes drift to Ed’s and he finds the other man with both hands clasped in front of his chest on the tabletop, bright eyed and attentive. The expression offers neither praise nor disapproval, Ed is just listening. But considering his earlier refusal to accept this crime Lucius feels compelled to defend against further, unspoken rebuttal regardless.

“I know on its own none of it seems like much,” he says, surprised to find that, having put the details into words it does seem remarkably _less_ than in his private recollection. “But you have to understand, I kept this up for _years_. Always a weekend here and one or two weeks there, at least one or two late nights every week, maybe more, and that’s not taking into account the official company dinners and galas and charity balls I acquired invitations to, or that he’d just… actually invite me to, where I made sure to keep as close to him as possible. True, we were never together, per se, but he also wasn’t with his wife or his son and that’s on me.” He drops his hand and grips the edge of the table as though bracing against a blow. “That’s on me,” he repeats. Because it is and he needs to live with that. Can’t let himself forget. “How many days, months, I must have stolen from him, from _them_ , all so I could, what? Stand a little closer to him a little longer in a room full of people? Listen to his voice as he spoke to others?” His lips flatten, head dropping as he shakes it. “We _were friends_. He shared enough of his life with me. Lunches. Drinks after work. I could have been content with that. But I wasn’t.” Lucius can feel his lip curl as a familiar wave of self-loathing washes over him. “I kept pushing for more. And I never considered the consequences. Never imagined our time, his time, might be running out. If I had known –” He comes to an abrupt stop as remorse dovetails into grief and slips a finger under his glasses to press against the bridge of his nose to hold it back, eyes falling shut until the moment passes. “If I had known what was coming,” he mutters, drawing his hand back and staring across the chrome surface of the table and beyond, wholly lost in the telling at this point and speaking without purpose, as much at the mercy of the words and memory as Ed had been to his own pain moments before. “I – I want to believe I would have done things differently. Been less selfish. But… I don’t know if that’s true. And that doubt, it haunts me. Some days I can barely look Bruce in the eye…”    

Dear brave and kind and caring Bruce, who is so like his father. It had been shame – of what he’d taken from the boy, so often and for so long – that had held him back from approaching sooner after Thomas and Marthas’ murder. _Shame_ , and not the respect Lucius had argued to himself, he sees that now. Because if he’d had to face Bruce during that first agonising year after, seen his young face crumpled with all that pain and loss, then Lucius doesn’t trust himself not to have broken down and told the boy everything, fallen to his knees and begged forgiveness. Even later, when enough time had passed to harden them both, Lucius had almost slipped up that first night in Thomas’ hidden room. Because Bruce had thanked him so kindly for agreeing to help fix the computer, had looked at him like a blessing, like a shining light in his trouble and not just another man who’d added to his darkness. When he’d told Bruce he’d loved his father, that he regretted not helping him more, little did Bruce know how deep that love and regret truly ran.

If Alfred hadn’t arrived to distract them god knows what burdens Lucius would have placed on the young man’s shoulders in a selfish attempt to free them from his own.

He’s grown more cautious since, revealing only details pertinent to present investigations into Thomas’ work. Since Thomas had kept him largely uninformed of his fight against city corruption – ‘for your own protection’ he’d said – this means Lucius has had little occasion to discuss him or their relationship, which he thinks is for the best. Though a painful side effect has been the way young Bruce now seems to trust and believe in him completely, despite how inaccurate Lucius knows that belief to be. Perhaps that’s why seeing a similar reverence of his supposed virtue in Ed had hit him so hard.

One day, Lucius hopes to be worthy of this trust he’s inspired in Thomas’ son. But for now he must learn to live with the fact that he has it, unearned and undeserved.

“Bruce?” Ed queries. “You mean… Turtleneck? What’s he got to –?”

The gasp is so sudden and so loud it jolts Lucius out of his misery and focuses him back to Ed himself, who has flattened both palms on the table in excitement.

“Your mystery man was _Thomas Wayne?_ Wow!”

Somehow Ed manages to make the expletive stretch to two syllables, wide eyes and dropping jaw a cartoon comical picture of surprise. Lucius’ first instinct is to sigh in distaste at the performance, except Ed goes on to eye him up and down in fresh wonder and it makes Lucius uncertain.

“You’re not really just figuring that out now…?” he asks. “Are you?”

With a giddy smile Ed places a hand to his chest – his right hand, so the pain in his arm must have eased.

“I appreciate your faith in my deductive abilities,” he grins. “But while I’m good – extraordinarily so – even I’m not that good.” His hand drops back to the table. “Wayne Enterprises has millions of employees, hundreds of whom are married, many of whom could have been your superior at one time or another. If I had a list of married men with sons I could cross reference there’s no doubt I would have been able to determine your love in short order, but I can’t pluck facts out of thin air.”

“But –” Lucius frowns. Is this some new game? He pulls off his glasses, which he really shouldn’t still be wearing anyway, in case the lenses are distorting his perception. But Ed continues to appear sincere. Holding the glasses by the stem Lucius points them in Ed’s direction as he continues. “But you had more facts. You – you knew, about the pasta. About Paris.”

Ed lifts his head, light dawning in his eyes.

“The meal in Paris, that was Wayne,” he nods, raising his left hand so he can snap his fingers. “Of course, yes. If I’d known that, the truth would have been obvious.”   

“But –”

“You keep the receipt of the meal in the frame behind the graduation photo in your bedroom,” Ed starts in a lazy drawl. “But there’s no photos of you and lovers, old or new, anywhere. And while there is an exquisite French bistro only three blocks away from here and you _love_ to dine out, you’ve never visited even once. Ergo, the evening was a sentimental one you wish to remember, but not too much. Likely because the relationship between you and your dining partner didn’t progress as you’d hoped.”

Lucius stares.

“What?” Ed shrugs. “You think this is the first time I’ve been to your apartment?” A chuckle. “Foxy, _please_ ,” Ed goes on to scoff, bare arms folding, regardless of the way this pulls at his wound. “But I had no idea who was with you. It’s sort of a shame, I was picturing some petite French maid in red lipstick and a garter.”

The eyebrow waggle Ed finishes on is lost on Lucius, who is still trying to wrap his head around the Holmesian deduction and adjust to the fact that Ed had essentially _bluffed_ him that night at the bar. And the GCPD had kept him in forensics? This was better detective work than Lucius has witnessed from _actual detectives_ and distracting enough that he’s willing to overlook the casual reference to prior home invasion.

“You didn’t…” he mutters, resting his glasses on the table and continuing to stare into the distance. “You didn’t know…”

He can still feel how electrifying it was to hear Ed mention Paris. It was like he’d been stripped bare, like Ed was the only one in the city who actually _saw him._ And having kept himself so private for so long, for preference as much as protection, that had been terrifying. Yet also thrilling. 

Only it had all been a lie. Or a half truth at best.

Ed hadn’t known about Thomas, hadn’t seen the truth of him. He’d only pieced together an outline. And within that frame he’d spun a pretty web of inference and assumption, one that blended well enough with reality providing you didn’t examine it too close, and Lucius had walked right into it, filling in the blanks without even realising.

Until the lie became the reality.

Because there is no one else who knows what he’d told Ed tonight, no one who knows him as Ed does now. Now he truly is laid bare before the man.

And to think, all this time he’d believed Ed was the vulnerable one.

“That’s…” The irony translates into a cough of laughter. “That’s clever.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Ed replies, sounding, of all things, _relieved_. “But don’t feel bad, most people overlook my genius.”

The tone might be casual again, but the tightness in Ed’s smile hints at a lingering, unspoken hurt.

“Yes,” Lucius tells him. “They do.”

Because he’s not ‘most people’ anymore, is he?

Ed blinks.

“I –” he falters, as though startled by the comment, and ducks his head. “Yes. No. Exactly.” With a shake he looks up again, focus returning, though his cheeks seem a little redder, his smile softer. “Anyways, seems to me like you’re being too hard on yourself about Wayne. Stolen kisses, now that would be something. Were you ever even intimate with the man? At all?”

Lucius swallows and the tastes burns, bitter, down his throat.

“You need a dressing over that,” he nods, lifting his glasses to point at Ed’s shoulder before slipping them back on and reaching to the medical kit. “I should have some…”

Ed’s laughter accompanies his search.

“When you’re quite finished with your transparent evasion,” Ed tells him as Lucius retrieves a roll of gauze and begins to unravel it. “Do tell.”

Glancing up to reassess the wound and judge how large a dressing is required, Lucius finds Ed waiting with eyebrows lifted.

“Don’t hold out on me now, Foxy.”

It does seem churlish to end his confession here, Lucius thinks, as he uses the scissors to cut off the gauze at a suitable length.

“It was in Tokyo,” he begins, swapping the scissors for a roll of surgical tape and moving back to Ed’s side. He speaks quietly, almost under his breath, but has no doubt Ed is catching every word. “We were finalising negotiations for the supply of computer parts.” He tears off a stretch of tape and uses it to fix one side of the gauze over the curve of Ed’s shoulder. “Part of an update to our systems. It was my project, so I didn’t even need a pretext, I was there legitimately. Thomas, myself and a handful of others.” Pressing the gauze gently over his stitching, Lucius rips off more tape and fixes each side down. “To celebrate the deal the firm took us all to this local restaurant. I think one of them owned the place, or their family did, something like that. It was an extravagant meal, with far too much sake. Thomas tried to respectfully decline, but they insisted.” He pauses, eyes on the line of tape he’s just drawn. “No.” He shakes his head, ripping the tape free. “No that’s not true. I suggested it would be impolite to refuse. By the end of the night we were both… far from sober.” He flattens the final piece of tape across Ed’s back, realising only then that he should probably have put on a fresh pair of gloves for the task. Remise of him. “I told myself I was being a good friend walking him back to his room, but… Well, I don’t think I ever planned to leave with a simple ‘goodnight’ once we reached his doorway…”

The memory replays, every moment flowing one after the other with the perfect, effortless detail that comes from countless revisits. The soft yield of Thomas’ lips. The subsequent gasp that dissolved into drunken laughter. How his eyes had widened, just a fraction, as Lucius stepped in the room. The finger pressed to his lips followed by smiling, exaggerated shushing as Thomas closed the door, like it was all some silly, schoolboy game.

“He didn’t remember in the morning,” Lucius goes on, sitting back in his chair and staring at nothing. “Or at least, I hope to god he didn’t. I left before he woke up. I… was too much of a coward to face him. If he did remember he had the decency not to say anything and I took my cue from him and did the same.”

Restless now Lucius stands, grateful for the distraction offered by the scrape of chair legs across the wooden floor.

“That should have been a warning of course,” he mutters, collecting the various paraphernalia left on the table and tidying it into the First Aid kit. “That I was taking things too far. That I needed to stop.” He closes the lid of the kit with a snap. “But I didn’t. I carried on just as before. Because I was thoughtless. And selfish. And –”

Disgust rises up like it always does when he lingers on these memories too long and Lucius grips the sides of the medical kit tight with both hands and lets it, gorging on the rank, bile-inducing taste.

“Do you know what my first thought was when I heard about the shooting?” he asks, head bent, eyes on the smooth, plastic surface of the box. “Before the pain and the anger and the grief?”

He looks up then, wondering if Ed might actually try and guess. It’s something like a riddle isn’t it? But Ed meets his gaze in silence, only moving his eyebrows a little closer together. No excitable, child-like curiosity. No gleeful mocking.

No judgement.

“I wished that only she had died.” Lucius chokes on the words and has to turn his head and swallow. “Martha was my _friend_. Who does that? Who wishes death on a friend?”

The question hangs over them for a moment – a further swing of the pendulum above Lucius’ head.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Ed mutters into the stillness, halting the momentum of the illusionary weapon. Then he takes a breath and Lucius feels the brush of fingertips over his forearm, just under the roll of his sleeve. Lucius knows Ed must be cold from sitting shirtless in the open air for so long, but the touch feels warm. “Don’t beat yourself up over wishing, Foxy,” Ed adds, curling his fingers around the skin and squeezing. “It’s not like you killed her.”

No.

Not like Penguin, Lucius thinks, filling in the unspoken addendum.

While Ed had insisted Lucius wasn’t a replacement for Cobblepot, that he no longer needed a ‘reflection’ like Penguin had been, Lucius can’t help but feel the man as spectre at his shoulder regardless. A rival of sorts – resurrected as a negative image of whatever it is Ed does want Lucius to be.

He should protest the comparison. He is not Penguin’s opposite. And if Ed persists in trying to define him within these narrow parameters it’s going to get messy when Lucius inevitably breaks their confines and shatters Ed’s already fragile world view.

But while he’s not the reflection or the enemy or the hero Ed is trying to make of him, Lucius is only human. And the offer of absolution from his crimes, no matter how unholy the source, is a tempting thing.

He reaches for Ed’s hand.

Then hurriedly pulls away, grabbing the bowl of water with its bloated cloth floating on top, and returns it to the kitchen.

“Have you been with anyone since?” Ed calls behind him and Lucius refuses to turn as he answers, focusing on tipping the liquid away, eyes following the pink swirl of it around the drain.

“I think this conversation has run its course, thank you.”

“No. No of course you haven’t,” Ed surmises. “Because you loved him.”

There’s a squeak and a clatter as Ed also draws his chair back. But Lucius ignores the sound and the footsteps that follow in favour of placing the empty bowl on the rack by the sink to dry.

“You still love him,” Ed says at Lucius’ shoulder while Lucius rinses out the cloth. “And you want to keep him with you, as long as you can.”

Lucius twists the cloth in both hands, watching the drips escaping from it fall slower and slower. Still pinkish, like the cloth itself.

“Celibacy though – ouch. Harsh way to go about it.”

“Murder and psychedelics are preferable, I suppose?” Lucius dares, dropping the soiled cloth in defeat and turning to glare at the other man. If the game is inference and implication, he can play at it too.

Ed bares his teeth in something more grimace than grin.

“Heh.” He turns and leans back against the counter, gripping the edge with both hands, eyes dropping to the floor. “Touché…”

Standing there – bandaged, half naked and sucking his bottom lip – Ed looks so small and alone. As battered and confused by life as the next man and just trying to make some sense of it all.

And something else. A familiar turmoil in the sudden movement of his eyes as they follow the swirls in the wood. It’s the kind of desperate trick to avoid confusing thoughts Lucius remembers from his childhood – from awkward days in the schoolyard as he tried not to think about all the strange, fluttery feelings he was starting to get about some of the other boys or his favourite heroes on TV.

Oh.

He’d suspected that Ed’s betrayal by Penguin had been complicated by more than just the friendship Ed claimed, but he hadn’t imagined the denial might stretch even further. Lucius had made his own discoveries so young he forgets sometimes that matters of sex and love don’t always come as easily to others.

This changes things. Perhaps he’s been thinking about their dinner date, about Ed’s interest in him, all wrong. Perhaps it’s _not_ about Ed deluding himself, making a puzzle out of Lucius to divert his thoughts from other, unpleasant realities, but rather about Ed trying to embrace a once hidden _truth_.

A rush of pity floods Lucius then, because he more than anyone knows how difficult navigating your desires can be. What a shame that the key to unlocking the full extent of Ed’s had been murder, multiple counts thereof. Is that why he’d been so eager to announce himself a criminal? Has he tangled up who and how he loves so deeply with crime that defying the law is the only way he feels free enough to accept that part of him?

“Do you ever… do you still see him?” Ed asks, voice low, almost a whisper, eyes on his shoes now.

The question isn’t like his others. This isn’t Ed chasing more secrets. It’s Ed like he was that first time in Lucius’ car – seeking understanding. It’s a man guilty and confused over his feelings for another. Feelings he has ample reason to believe he shouldn’t have even without the gender of who he holds them for being an issue. It’s a man desperate to find someone who shares at least part of his experience and prove he is not completely alone.

“Without drugs you mean?” Lucius asks, just as quiet, to clarify.

When Ed nods back, eyes still downcast, Lucius makes a mental note to add visual and possibly auditory hallucinations to the other man’s sickness. Was that how he’d first started seeing Penguin? And the drugs had meant to block the visions? Or no, he’d _wanted_ Penguin with him. Perhaps he’d been seeing other things he wanted gone. Visions of the nameless woman he’d loved for instance?

“Not… not like the other night, no,” Lucius tells him.

It’s an admission that he’d been hallucinating Thomas during dinner, but that seems minor compared to everything else he’s revealed this evening, and he wants to make it as clear to Ed as he can that hallucinations are not something a healthy mind would create. 

Ed’s shoulders droop, lips flattening in disappointment, though it seems too much to hope it’s from acceptance of the mental problems Lucius is trying to hint at. More likely, knowing Ed, he’s just sorry at the lack of affinity between Lucius and himself when it comes to this.

“But sometimes I – I think I see him,” Lucius adds, to show he isn’t completely without understanding. “In a crowd. Or crossing the street. If someone has the same hair, or moves the same way. Even though I know it’s impossible there’s still a moment when my breath catches and I wonder…” Lucius leans back against the counter himself, mimicking Ed’s stance. “I followed a stranger half a block once, just because he was wearing the same style coat Thomas had.”

“Really?” The lilt in Ed’s voice sounds like hope.

“Um-hmm,” Lucius nods. “Mostly though… I dream about him.”

“Do you now?” Ed’s tone grows deeper and when Lucius turns to him he finds the hint of a smile on Ed’s lips. “What kind of dreams?”

“Not _that_ kind,” Lucius answers, rolling his eyes. Although – “Well… perhaps, sometimes…” Ed’s smile widens. “But often we’re just out together. Drinking. Sharing a meal. Sometimes Martha’s with us, sometimes Bruce is. Sometimes… I’m just back at Wayne Enterprises and everything is exactly how it was, only everything that used to matter simply… _doesn’t_. It doesn’t matter that he’s married, it doesn’t matter that we can never be together. Because the important thing is that he’s _alive_. We might not be _together_ , but he’s with me, and he’s alive.” Lucius flattens his own lips and shrugs. “And then I wake up…”

“Alone.”

There’s an intensity to the addition Lucius doesn’t understand, but when he looks over to try he catches only the glare of Ed’s lenses as the other man rushes forward and then there’s just the heat of Ed’s palms across his cheeks and the press of Ed’s lips against his own. The frames of their glasses clink against each other as Ed shifts to deepen the kiss, which is when Lucius realises he’s been reciprocating, unconsciously seeking out the other man’s heat.

Now fully aware, Lucius gives a muffled protest, hands locking about Ed’s wrists and gently pulling them down as he extracts himself from the embrace.  

Ed is flushed, lips parted, and doesn’t resist. He just stares, panting and dazed, as though waking from heavy slumber.

“This is a bad idea,” Lucius tells him, pushing Ed’s hands further away before relinquishing his hold.

With a quick blink and shake of his head Ed takes control of himself again.

“Why?” he shrugs, his wide eyes making the question seem an honest one. “You can’t spend your whole life loving a dead man, Foxy. It’s not healthy.”

The irony of being lectured on mental and emotional wellbeing by Edward Nygma is not lost on Lucius.

“It’s not that,” he answers, adding when Ed quirks an eyebrow – “It’s not just that.” Because, as crazy as it might seem, Ed’s point _was_ a valid one. 

“Is it because it’s me?” Ed goes on, lips curling at the corners. “Because I’m a criminal. A murderer. A cop killer?”

The gleam in Ed’s eyes and the joy in his tone makes Lucius take a side step further along the counter. He sounds so proud, like the labels he quotes are real achievements, and Lucius aches in that moment to think that maybe they are the only occasions Ed has found recognition, the only times he’s felt validated as a person.

He’s just thinking how best to reply when Ed saves him the trouble.

“Wow,” he breathes, eyes fixing on Lucius in wonder. “No. That’s not what’s stopping you at all, is it? What I’ve done… that’s not what bothers you. You’re not worried _about_ me, you’re – you’re worried _for_ me.”

Lucius doesn’t deny it.

“You’re sick, Ed,” he says instead. “I don’t want to do anything to make things worse for you.”

Ed criss-crosses both hands over the left of his chest and tilts his head to one side.

“My hero,” he smiles, fluttering his eyelashes in imitation of a heroine’s swoon.

“I’m serious.”

Righting his head, Ed lifts his hands and clasps them before his face.

“I know you are,” he replies. “That’s what makes this so adorable! And I’m flattered that you care, truly. But I’ll be fine, I promise. The shoulder barely hurts at all anymore, you did a great job.”

“It’s not your shoulder I’m talking about and you know it.”

The eye roll and accompanying sigh are so long and heavy that Lucius worries for a moment that Ed is about to faint again.

“Oh _Foxy_ ,” Ed scolds. “Even assuming my faculties were as damaged as you seem to believe – _what_ does it have to do with this?” He waves a hand back and forth between them. “Unless you think intimacy between two men is also madness. In which case, my friend, you are as cuckoo as anyone.”

“I – no – no _of course_ that’s not –”

Lucius grits his teeth. Associating his love of other men with madness or perversion is the kind of absurdist logic he’s struggled with on and off for years. Is another reason he felt drawn to working in Gotham, in fact, for while the city has its many and terrible faults, it is somewhat progressive in matters such as these. The idea that he himself might somehow be acting in support of that kind of hateful rhetoric is horrifying.

Which Ed could well be aware of and his use of the argument now is designed to distract and confuse.

But if not – god, the _last_ thing Lucius wants to do is have Ed mistake his sexuality for his sickness.

“I just –” he starts, trying to find the words to explain. “I just don’t want to take advantage, that’s all.”

“ _Please_ ,” Ed scoffs. “I’m not a child.” He starts inching closer. “And I am _literally_ asking for it.”  

His hands reach out and Lucius has to step away from the counter and further back into the kitchen to escape the touch.

“No you’re not a child,” he agrees. “But you may be… compromised.”

“Pfft! Who isn’t?” Ed counters, throwing up a hand. “Especially in this town. There’s always something happening to influence our judgement. If we let a little thing like that hold us back we’d never do anything fun.”

“This – this is different,” Lucius stammers, frustrated at his sudden inability to clarify the unfolding state of affairs, both to Ed and to himself.

“Um-hmm,” Ed nods, curling a finger over his lips as he takes another step closer. “And Tokyo? Was that different as well?”

“Don’t –”

“All that alcohol in his system – surely Thomas was ‘compromised’ too? Didn’t stop you then.”

The sound of Thomas giggling rings in Lucius’ ears. He remembers how the other man had stumbled as he tugged off his pants. So unlike the poise and precision of his usual self.

“It should have,” Lucius says, voice cracking. “It – I – it should have.”

Ed’s eyes grow soft, creasing at the corners.

“Oh,” he mutters, hands interlocking and pressing to his chin. “Oh my poor, sweet fox,” he continues. “So hounded by doubt.”

Dropping his hands he steps closer, and closer still, and Lucius is too taken aback to escape this time, because when did _he_ become the one of them to be pitied?

“You might not be a saint, Lucius,” Ed tells him as he stops, once more within touching distance. Through all of their whirlwind acquaintance Ed has never addressed him by his first name before, indeed the only other time he’s even spoken it was earlier this evening, and the unexpected intimacy makes Lucius shiver. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be a martyr.”

Ed doesn’t grab him again, he simply takes another step forward, leaning in slowly until their lips are touching. Lucius could move, offer a more definitive ‘no,’ but indecision has him paralysed. And Ed’s mouth is so eager and inviting, circling his own open unmoving one with a series of small, gentle pecks. The touch is chaste and far from demanding – each mark a question. It’s the opposite of how Lucius has been interpreting this scenario because it’s Ed seeking assurance of _his_ consent.

Or is it?

He’s too turned around now, too _involved_ , to think clearly. Which is a sure sign he needs to back away. Only –

He’s been no martyr, that’s ridiculous. But it has been _so long_.

And he is so tired of feeling guilty all the time.

And he can just picture Ed’s hurt if he rejects him _again_.

They would only be sharing pleasure – is that really so bad? And doesn’t he _owe it_ to Ed to show him that intimacy with a man doesn’t have to be tainted by death and betrayal? That it can be honest and easy and good? Who else is there to show him that? To teach Ed that this part of himself isn’t a crime?

Question follows question in a frantic jumble, each one clambering to be heard above the other, blending into a dizzying white noise that Lucius finally blots out by kissing back in answer.

His eyes drop shut in surrender, hands stroking up from Ed’s elbows to his upper arms and holding there so he can tug the other man closer, lips capturing the curl of Ed’s smile. Then there’s nothing but the taste and the feel of it and oh what a _relief_ it is to stop thinking and give himself up to that, his only concern with bringing the two of them closer, aligning their bodies just so. Although Ed’s concerns rush ahead, his hands skimming down Lucius’ shirt and hooking round his pants, sliding up to his belt buckle.

“Mmmm, wait, wait,” Lucius murmurs into the kiss, pressing his palms to the back of Ed’s hands to hold him still.

“ _Fox-eee_ ,” Ed whines, impatient, but Lucius silences further protest by placing a thumb to Ed’s lips.

“Hush,” he says, emboldened by the way Ed’s breath catches and his pupils dilate at the command. “While my dusty kitchen floor is serviceable, I do have a bedroom you know.” He drags his thumb over Ed’s lower lip, resting it against his chin. “You’ve been in there at least once already, so you’ll know it even has a bed.”

Ed licks his lips before answering.

“Lead on,” he nods and Lucius doesn’t wait for any more doubt to set in, just takes Ed by the hand and walks them straight there.

There’s one last moment of hesitation as he releases Ed on stepping through the door, his neatly made queen sized bed with its monochrome duvet before him precisely as he’d left it that morning. The bed and the cabinet beside it, still holding the journal on theoretical physics he’d been reading the night before, is a tableaux of normal within what has become a decidedly abnormal situation, and it makes him wonder if he can really do this, if he can handle the complications and unpredictability this choice will bring to his hitherto neat and well-ordered life.

Until the click of the door closing turns him back to where Ed is standing, hands behind him on the door handle, lips sucked in, eyes bright, body tense. But waiting. And Lucius realises that his well-ordered life is already complicated, whether he can handle it or not.

So without a word and without another thought to stopping, he toes off his shoes and starts to unbutton his shirt.

As if signalled a green light at a race Ed springs into action in response, hopping one at a time out of his own shoes and tugging off his socks before tackling his belt and pants. He’s so fast that he’s stripped to his boxers – as green as his jacket, Lucius notes with a smile – and hurrying forward before Lucius has reached the end of his buttoning.

“Here,” Ed grins, easing Lucius’ hands away and taking the task upon himself. “Let me help you.”

Once the buttons are done Ed reaches beneath the blue fabric and flattens both hands across Lucius’ stomach, sliding soft and slow up his chest and over his shoulders. His lips part in a wider, pearly white smile at the way Lucius’ breath quickens at the touch, but his eyes stay fixed on the glimpse of bare skin within the open shirt. The intensity is enough to make Lucius start to feel a touch self-conscious, but before he grows too uncomfortable Ed pushes the shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, running his palms briefly down Lucius’ arms before grasping once more at his belt buckle.

He pauses a moment with his hands on the clasp to meet Lucius’ watching eye, smile snaking up to one side, mischievous – as if daring Lucius to stop him again. But this time Lucius simply smiles back and lifts an eyebrow – daring Ed to continue. Which he does, making short work of the belt and moving straight to the fly, popping the button and unfastening the zip while also walking Lucius backwards towards the bed. The latter is something Lucius isn’t consciously aware of until Ed tugs his pants and boxers down together just as the back of his shins hit the bedside, knocking Lucius off balance so he falls on his now very bare ass on top of the duvet, hands dropping either side of his hips to keep himself upright.

“Ooof!” Lucius gasps as he falls while Ed chuckles above him in delight, then gasps again as Ed grips both of his thighs, thumbs rubbing down the insides as he bends over to whisper “view-halloo” in Lucius’ ear.

It’s only thanks to Alfred that Lucius recognises the term, as the man had once jovially greeted him with it during one of his numerous trips to Wayne Manor while working on the computer. A polite enquiry had prompted a more detailed account of the history of bloodsports and the British aristocracy than Lucius had been prepared for, but had provided a notable extension to his vocabulary – should he ever be out hunting and wish to announce he’s spotted the fox. 

He pulls back to glare at Ed for his use of the phrase now.

“Must everything be wordplay with you?”

“Why?” Ed smirks. “Is there something else you’d rather I do with my mouth?”

“I –”

The quip leaves him speechless. Believing this was Ed’s first time with a man Lucius thought Ed would be curious but tentative, unsure of himself – an extension of his moment of anxiety in the kitchen. He hadn’t expected Ed to be so – _commanding_.

But it’s better this way perhaps. Best to let Ed take control – set the pace, define his own limits. There’s less risk of Lucius forcing the issue if Ed himself is the driving force. Right?

“As you like,” Ed murmurs against his cheek as he drops down, settling between Lucius’ open legs.

Without preamble he shucks Lucius’ pants and underwear to his ankles to give himself better access and bends forward, stretching his tongue out wide and licking firmly up Lucius’ already erect shaft.

After so many years of no touch but his own, this and the kissing and disrobing and general manhandling is enough to make Lucius swell in an instant and he can’t stop the groan as the rich heat of it flushes across his body. But there’s little time to dwell because Ed, presumably enthused by the sound, continues his assault with vigour, slicking Lucius all over so he can swallow him down as soon as possible and once Lucius has breached the wet circle of Ed’s lips all attempts at coherent thought are lost.

He’s saying something, possibly. Curses. Or it might just be noise. It’s hard to tell over the rush of blood in his ears. Ed’s technique is remarkably competent for a first try. Or Lucius is easy. Either way he’s shaking in moments with Ed taking it in stride, stroking his hands round the curve of Lucius’ trembling thighs to spread them wider, head bobbing in a quick, steady rhythm all the way down and back up again so Lucius doesn’t need to move himself at all.

The lack of effort on his part gives the whole thing a dreamlike quality. It’s like he’s floating. Up and up, higher and higher, on an unfaltering wave of pleasure. It’s only by threading his fingers through Ed’s hair that Lucius is able to assure himself of the reality of what’s happening.

A reality sure to end all too soon if things continue as they are.

“Ed… Ed…” he calls. “I’m… you… Ed s – stop –”

When Ed does, pulling off with an abrupt pop that makes Lucius whine, the look he gives is like a kicked puppy.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Lucius shakes his head, brushing back the errant locks fallen across Ed’s brow.

“No. No. Exactly the opposite,” he gasps, to which Ed gives a brisk, satisfied nod. “But, uh. I – we – we’re going to have to slow down, if you want me to last.”

Ed drops his head to eye Lucius over the rims of his glasses.

“Oh, Foxy.” Teeth flash from his grin, making him by far the more vulpine of the two of them, regardless of Lucius’ nom de plume. “Am I too much for you?”

As Ed slithers up and onto his lap, hands cupping around his neck, Lucius has to wonder if the answer to that question isn’t resoundingly affirmative.

“Is this better?” Ed murmurs, drawing their foreheads together and rocking his hips. Body responding in kind, Lucius takes Ed’s waist in both hands and rocks up to meet him.

The friction of Ed’s boxers and cock beneath, also impressively hard it turns out, is not as strong as Ed’s previous attentions, but still enough to elicit a long, rumbling moan – one that Ed seems to try and capture, rubbing his thumbs along Lucius’ Adam’s apple and pressing, just lightly, as if to better feel the vibrations. It’s only when the pressure remains after Lucius has fallen silent that he recalls it was strangulation, wasn’t it, that Ed’s first girlfriend had died of? But the thought fades back into the recess of his mind when Ed eases up to stroke his thumbs under Lucius’ jaw, brushing their noses as he moves down to kiss him, rocking again and again until Lucius is lost in a fresh haze of heat and bliss.

“Uuuh…” Lucius mutters after a little while of this. “P – perhaps we –” he tries, turning his head from Ed’s kisses and tensing against the continuing spikes of pleasure. “Perhaps we should –” His voice grows higher pitched. “T- try something else –”

Ed slows and then stills, shifting his hands to Lucius’ shoulders.

“Mmmm, well isn’t this getting just deliciously _tricky?_ ” he says, pulling back but only a fraction, the tips of their noses still touching. “Lucky for you I’m more than up to the challenge.” He gives Lucius’ nose a playful flick with his own. “Ooooh! It’ll be like a game!”

The joy is infectious – enough that Lucius can’t resist grinning back, despite how close the terminology brings them to Ed’s criminal antics.

“Sure.” He half nods, half shrugs, figuring it can’t hurt to channel Ed’s penchant for games into new, non-lethal directions. “Why not?”

“Okay! So.” Ed lifts his eyebrows as he leans back. “How do you want to play?”

He could offer to return some of the indulgences Ed has already bestowed on him, but Lucius is hesitant to try, nervous that it might risk a reversal of the balance of power they’ve established. What they need is a way forward that allows Ed to take pleasure for himself while retaining control of the situation.

“Check in the back of the top drawer behind me,” he says and while Ed tilts his head, curious, he moves to do as instructed without question, clambering off Lucius and across the bedcover.

While he’s gone Lucius takes the opportunity to divest himself of what remains of his clothing.

“What am I look–? Oh, I see,” Ed calls as Lucius scoots backwards along the bed to where Ed is laid out on his stomach rummaging through the side cabinet’s now open top drawer. “Kinky,” Ed adds, rolling over with a three quarter full bottle of lubricant and an unopened condom in hand.

“Not especially,” Lucius counters, because it’s not exactly triple X erotic material, just the basics. He’s never been much interested in toys, although he’s not unwilling to experiment should the occasion arise.

“Well, regardless,” Ed says, crossing his legs and turning the bottle over so he can examine the label. The position makes the tenting of his boxers more prominent and Lucius curls his fingers into his palm to resist the urge to tug the fabric away and take Ed in hand. “I, um.” While Ed’s voice remains cool, Lucius notices a couple of lines etch across his brow. Finally a shadow of the apprehension he’s been expecting. “I don’t think we’ve quite reached the point in our relationship where I’m ready to let you –”

“The bottle’s not for you, Ed,” Lucius tells him, plucking it from Ed’s fingers. “It’s for me,” he goes on, removing his glasses and placing them on top of the cabinet. He then reaches behind him to bring his pillow to the small of his back, pops open the lid of the bottle and squeezes a handful of gel over his fingers and lies down, bending his knees and spreading his legs wide.

“Aren’t you full of surprises tonight?” Ed notes, placing the condom on top of the cabinet and watching, wide eyed and eager, while Lucius rubs some of the gel about his entrance. 

It shouldn’t take long to prepare himself – it’s been part of his personal routine for years and in all honesty Lucius knows he’d probably have been doing this tonight anyway, even without Ed as an audience. Although the thought of someone else actually making use of his preparations makes his cock twitch and throb in ways absent from his usual nightly habit.

He’s just about ready to slip a finger inside and lifts his hand to coat it in more gel when the mattress dips and Ed is there taking the bottle away from him.

“May I?” Ed asks, smiling down at him and there’s something different about his expression. It looks clearer. Sharper.

Because Ed has removed his glasses as well, Lucius realises as Ed takes up position between his legs and, without waiting for an answer, sits back on his haunches and squirts a generous amount of liquid into his right palm. Not simply either, but with _flair_ – lifting the bottle high as he squeezes so the gel falls in a long stream, which Ed halts by snapping the lid shut and dropping the bottle at his side.

He then spends several minutes coating each of his long, slender fingers with meticulous, almost surgical precision and Lucius, distracted by the performance, fails to give voice to his reply. But since it’s in line with what is undoubtedly Ed’s intent it doesn’t seem to matter, so he lets his mind wander, imaging how slick and smooth those fingers might feel after Ed is done.

Ed doesn’t hurry and twice Lucius’ mouth grows dry with anticipation, but he doesn’t push, just swallows and waits for Ed to be ready.

It’s only during the third coating of each finger, when Ed’s studious expression breaks into a furtive smile that Lucius understands he’s being toyed with.

“ _Ed…_ ” he pleads.

“Hmm?” Eyes still on his hand, Ed flexes his fingers. One at a time. Slowly. “Oh sorry,” he quips, finally turning his gaze back to Lucius. “Were you waiting?” He shuffles closer, sitting up on his knees, and brings his hand down. The dressing over his shoulder creases through the movement, but holds, and if there’s any lingering pain Ed doesn’t show it. “I’ve never done this before,” he continues, gripping Lucius’ knee with his left hand. “So you’ll have to excuse my ineptitude.”

“Hmm,” Lucius mutters back, sceptical. Not of Ed’s lack of experience, but of his claim of ineptitude. Because his trick with the gel has served to ease the pressure building in Lucius enough to take the edge off, while also keeping him eager for more in a way that has Lucius suspect Ed knew exactly what he was doing.

“Now…” Ed starts circling his hole with his middle finger. “This part’s simple, right? Just like this –?”

His finger slides in all the way, pushing through the tense muscle without hesitation and while the burn is stronger than Lucius was expecting it’s a good kind of pain, so he bites his lip and nods, encouraging.

“And again?” Ed pulls out and slides back in, this time exploring a little with his fingertip in a way that makes Lucius hiss then tip his head back with a groan while Ed mutters above him – “Ah, I see...”

And so it goes on, with Ed keeping himself attune to Lucius’ needs with a constant string of questions and running commentary – ‘like this..? more? oh, not that deep… perhaps with two? wider – like that? faster? ah, yes, this is good… can you take one more? excellent…’ And if the attention sometimes makes him feel more like a science experiment than a lover Lucius chooses not to care because god it feels _so good_.

By the time Ed has three fingers inside him Lucius is squirming, eyes closed, weak sounds escaping his lips with each thrust. His hips start to buck upwards so Ed can penetrate deeper and the pressure is so delicious Lucius has to twist his fingers in the bedcover to hold back from grabbing his aching cock and bringing himself release.

“Look at you,” Ed says as he works his last finger in, more than a little breathless himself. “Oh, I like you like this! So… _wanton._ And _compliant_. If I’d known it was this easy to tame you I could have dispensed with the threats.”

He strokes the hand on Lucius’ knee down towards his crotch, knuckles brushing the curls of hair there and Lucius is so far gone this alone makes him shudder.

“You must be very close by now. Are you going to come for me, Foxy?” Ed asks and he sounds ecstatic – gasping out the words like not just Lucius but all his birthdays and Christmas are about to come at once. “Oh, you _should_.” In time with his next thrust he trails a finger from his other hand up Lucius’ cock. But the touch is feather light and just – not – quite – enough. “I want you to,” Ed adds, pressing against the base of Lucius’ shaft while Lucius bucks higher, desperate for more friction. “But not yet…”

Ed lifts his hand away and Lucius doesn’t care how needy the sound he makes is. He can’t hold on much longer.

“I need you to do something for me first,” Ed is telling him, though it’s getting harder and harder to focus beyond the thrum beneath his skin. “It’s easy, I promise. I want you to say something. Can you do that?”

Not fully listening, Lucius merely hums in answer.

“Do you swear?” Ed persists, cupping Lucius’ balls. “Swear to say what I ask you to?”

Say something? That’s what he’s asking? More wordplay probably, Lucius thinks. As much as he _can_ think. Or some token of reassurance. He can offer that, of course he can. Whatever Ed wants. As long as it takes him over this maddeningly close edge.

“I swear,” Lucius pants.

For the first time Ed’s rhythm falters, just a fraction of a second, his breath catching. Then he continues on and at the same time issues his demand.

“Say my name.”

“W – what?”

“Say my name,” Ed repeats, smugness making his voice deeper.

Even with his eyes closed Lucius can see the sharp twist in Ed’s lips and beneath the rising heat he feels his stomach drop. And along with it – a memory. _‘You’ll come tonight. And any other night I ask. And you’re going to take every opportunity to play with me that you can.’_ Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Lucius fulfilling that promise exactly. Set to make a winner out of Ed no matter what.

“E – Ed,” he tries anyway.

“ _No_ …” Ed replies, not angry or impatient but gleeful at the failure, his rhythm slowing, left hand flicking at the tips of Lucius’ dark curls.

“ _Edward_.”

“No.” There’s laughter in Ed’s tone now, the movement of his fingers drawing to a halt, leaving Lucius to shake and rut, his pleasure fading on the verge of its peak.

“ _Nygma_ ,” he whimpers. One last, futile attempt to avoid the title Ed so badly wants to hear from him and Lucius wants so desperately not to give.

“Oh well.” Ed starts to pull his fingers back. “It’s been fun, Foxy, but –”

“No wait!”

Lucius doesn’t mean to cry out, the plea just slips out of him as the emptiness where Ed’s fingers used to be grows larger.

Have these last few years without another’s touch really made him so pathetic? He doesn’t have to give in – he could take himself over the edge. It would be easy enough to reach a hand across and a few quick pulls should do it.

But he won’t though. Even as he thinks it Lucius knows that he won’t – that he _can’t_. Because it wouldn’t be right.

Because it would be against the rules.

“Rid –” he stutters instead, cheeks burning at how _idiotic_ this feels. But humiliating as it is, he chokes the syllables out regardless. “Riddler.” 

“There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Ed gloats but Lucius barely notices because Ed is also pressing his fingers deep inside him and grabbing his cock. The tug is weak and sloppy because it’s not Ed’s main hand but it’s enough, dear god it’s _enough_ , and Lucius comes with a shout, writhing across the bedcover as his orgasm splashes over his chest and down Ed’s fingers.

Ed gasps something that sounds like ‘oh _my_ ’ as he lets go – presumably to wipe himself clean – but Lucius is lost in the white, numbing heat of his climax, shuddering through the aftershocks, pulsing tight around the fingers still inside him at first and then into near painful emptiness when Ed yanks them away. He’s still spasming when he feels Ed tugging his legs and can do nothing but offer a choking cry as he feels Ed’s cock push inside him, filling out and expanding the space Ed’s fingers had abandoned in one hard, burning thrust.

When Ed stripped of his boxers Lucius has no idea, much less when he coated himself in the layer of gel his relative ease of entrance proves he has – Lucius must have lost himself in pleasure longer than he’d realised. It’s soon clear Ed hasn’t bothered with the condom, however, but there’s little Lucius can do about that now with Ed holding his thighs to his waist and ploughing into him at a furious pace.

Eyes snapping open Lucius is shocked at how wild Ed looks – teeth bared, hair growing damp from his efforts and sticking every which way. No partner has been quite so ferocious with him before and Lucius almost cries out for Ed to stop – a creeping fear clawing inside him that Ed _won’t_ even if he does. But then Ed’s next thrust hits him deeper than Lucius has dared allow before tonight and bright lights explode behind his eyes, skin still flush with his fading climax tingling with new pleasure, and Lucius thinks he can stand this a little longer. Though at this speed it’s all Lucius can do to hold on, both hands fisting into the bedcover at his sides, legs crossing behind Ed’s back for greater purchase. 

With Lucius locking himself in position Ed reaches further down, fingers biting into Lucius’ waist to better pull himself forward, pinching tighter with every snap of his hips so Lucius hisses with pain but feels his lips curling up in a fierce smile as well. Because there’s a strange freedom to the fury of it all, to being so wholly in someone else’s control. There’s no need to think or worry or plan, he can just take every moment as it comes, good and bad together, knowing that whatever happens will happen and there’s nothing he can do about it, nothing he needs to be responsible for. He can just _be_ , and that’s enough.

The painful joy of this seems to last forever.

Then stretches even longer – and Ed is still going. Though his hold on Lucius is growing weaker now, thrusts slower but each one desperate.

Blinking beads of sweat from his lashes Lucius looks up to find Ed’s eyes pressed shut, the other man’s lips moving as he works, muttering under his breath. Lucius only catches snippets – ‘come on, come on… stupid… you can do this, Ed…’

And at once the power over Lucius breaks. Because this isn’t some larger than life force of nature above him, not anymore. This isn’t The Riddler. It’s just Ed again. Just a man who needs his help.

“Hey,” Lucius pants, finding it easy now to free a hand from the bed sheets while still matching Ed’s rhythm. “Hey.” He lays his palm over the straining white knuckles at his side. “Ed. Ed look at me.” Ed’s eyes pop open with a gasp, eyebrows folding together as he seeks out Lucius’ gaze. Questioning. Or pleading. “Just take it easy,” Lucius tells him, interrupting Ed’s next thrust by lifting his own hips, then again, until Ed’s movements meet his, the two of them rocking together. “That’s it,” Lucius goes on as the lines across Ed’s brow begin to relax. “Stay with me.” Ed draws himself up straighter, tensing, but not in desperation this time. This time his breathing grows even but deeper and Lucius can feel Ed’s cock pulse inside him as it draws closer to release. “You’re doing great,” he continues when a new set of lines start to form between Ed’s eyes, making sure to keep his own focused on Ed’s to keep him grounded. “Don’t think about it, okay?” Lucius circles the tip of his thumb over Ed’s wrist. “Just feel it.”

“I…” Ed gasps, face relaxing again with a bliss Lucius encourages with a smile. “Oh, Fox – Luce – oh – oh –”

“There we go.”

Ed’s eyelids flutter closed.

“Oh – Os – Oh – _OH!_ ” This final exclamation trails into a moan as Ed comes at last, arms shaking as he spills into Lucius. A new experience for both of them, Lucius imagines, and not unpleasant at all. It leaves him warm and full and satisfied. Worth the risk of not using protection. Probably not a risk with Ed anyway, Lucius justifies to himself. Ed will be clean. Of course he will.

As Ed sags forward, spent, Lucius untangles his legs from him, easing them down while Ed pulls free. But instead of moving away Ed continues to hold in place, still trembling, then after a while he takes a deep but laboured breath, seeming to choke on it, and wipes the ball of his right hand across his eyes.

“S – sorry,” he mutters, blinking hard and wiping his eyes again and Lucius realises Ed is trying to dry them. “I don’t – I’m sor –” he keeps trying, stopping each time to swallow until Lucius reaches up and cups his cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over the damp around Ed’s eyes. Not to dry it away, just to show he knows it’s there and doesn’t mind.

“It’s okay.”

Ed takes another shuddering breath and holds still and it seems to Lucius that he’s on the verge of a whole other kind of release.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, rubbing his other hand up Ed’s arm and gently pulling him down. “Come here.”

For half a second Ed tenses, resisting, then he surrenders completely and all at once, falling into Lucius’ wet but welcoming embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says again into the crook of Lucius’ neck, a patch of salt water collecting there as he continues, repeating the apology like a mantra. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry.”

It’s clear that it’s far more than his tears Ed is sorry for and Lucius can’t begin to guess at the depths of this breakdown or what precipitated it. All he can do is hold Ed close and stroke away the tangles in his hair while the other man works it out of his system, shushing him all the while and repeating back in answer –

“It’s okay. Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Until the meaning of his own words grows just as uncertain and he realises he doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince anymore.

Which is when exhaustion finally sets in and, still clinging to Ed, Lucius tumbles down into the blackness of sleep.

 

* * *

 

It’s no surprise that he wakes up alone.

What does shock Lucius is how much it hurts and not just the physical. In fact the aches and the sore spots are welcome because they prove the night wasn’t a dream, otherwise waking not only warm and safe beneath the sheets but also clean and dry would give him cause to doubt. Ed must have cleaned him up in the night. Which is kind and sweet and probably more than Lucius deserves after taking the troubled man to bed and consequently opening whatever emotional floodgates they’d ended on. No, he doesn’t blame Ed for leaving, he’d had no reason to stay. Especially after he’d got what he wanted – both the medical aid he’d come for and the verbal acknowledgement of his alter ego he’d wrung so cunningly from Lucius during their mutual passion. A memory Lucius blushes to recall and he wonders if it’s best Ed _isn’t_ here. At least this way he can’t crow about his triumph. Besides, it’s not as if Lucius hasn’t woken lonely before.

And yet, considering it was Ed’s intense reaction to his loneliness post-dreaming that prompted their intimacy –

Lucius had hoped he might stay.

A glance at the clock on the bedside cabinet, now tidy of unopened condoms and errant glasses, shows he has a couple of hours before work.

A shower then, he thinks. Hot. To clear his mind. And ease his aching muscles.

He checks all around the bed sheets and the pillows and the cabinet on rising, just in case Ed left some message for him. But there’s nothing.

Then, just as he’s crossing to the bathroom, there’s a sound from the other room. A metallic clatter followed by the thud of a drawer closing – someone rifling through his cutlery. After that a quiet, upbeat humming filters through the door along with, Lucius gradually becomes aware of now he’s paying attention, a thick, tasty, sugary smell.

Dismissing his plans for a shower Lucius grabs the blue and gold patterned dressing gown from the hook on the bathroom door and turns the other way, tying the belt in a loose knot before opening the door into his front room.

The first thing he notices is the kitchen table. The medical kit and gun have been cleared away and in their place are two neat and tidy table settings, each knife and fork positioned precisely the same space away from the two china plates with two empty glasses just above them and a jug of what looks like orange juice in-between. Lucius barely recognises the china – some pink and white floral design he has vague memories of receiving as a house warming gift from his mother and hiding away immediately after.

Beyond the table and with his back to Lucius Ed is bent over the hob in the kitchen busy tending to a sizzling frying pan. Humming cheerfully he runs a spatula around the edges before shaking the pan by the handle and deftly flicking what turns out to be a pancake inside up and over, catching it expertly back in the centre of the pan.

Unlike Lucius Ed is fully clothed in the same pants and shoes from the night before but topped with a clean white shirt that Lucius has a strong suspicion may be one of his own. There’s a bulge in Ed’s right pocket that Lucius surmises as the new home of the missing weapon and he imagines that Ed, being the thorough scavenger he is, has no doubt found the bullets by now as well. Though Lucius has no fear on that score. If Ed truly wanted to hurt him he’s had ample opportunity. Completing the outfit is Ed’s hat, perched at a jaunty angle on the top of his head, and two bows at his neck and waist that must belong to an apron of some kind, though Lucius is at a loss as to where in his home Ed could possibly have found one.

As Lucius watches, Ed lifts the pan off the hob and tips the pancake on top of a substantial pile already plated up on the kitchen counter, hum turning to a whistle as he returns the pan to the hob and reaches for the near empty jug of batter on his other side.

It’s all so perfectly domestic Lucius actually rubs his eyes a few times to make sure it’s not a dream or hallucination.

Struck dumb when the vision doesn’t stop Lucius simply stares as Ed examines the jug and apparently deems the remaining batter insufficient for another pancake because he returns it to the counter, moves the pan off the heat and twists the dial on the hub to the off position. Bopping his head from side to side he picks up the plate of finished pancakes and turns, stops mid-step when he sees Lucius on the other side of the room and beams.

The apron reads ‘(√-1)(23)∑(∏) _…and it was delicious!_ ’ and Lucius remembers it now – an oh-so-hilarious birthday gift from his older brother. Where on Earth Ed dug it out from remains a mystery.

“Good morning!” Ed chirps, continuing on around the kitchen island and depositing the plate next to the juice.

“You’re still here,” Lucius says, unsure if he’s accusing or relieved.

Ed’s smile grows sharper.

“I _know_ ,” he answers, eyes flicking up from the glass of juice he’s just finished pouring. “Puzzling, isn’t it?”

Lucius doesn’t react. He’s indulged Ed’s obsession with puzzles and games far too much already.

“Unexpected, certainly,” he replies, trying for an air of nonchalance.

“Oh, for me too,” Ed nods as he fills the second glass. “I’m not going to lie to you, Foxy, I fully intended to love you and leave you, but –” He places the jug on the table with a soft tap and shrugs. “The more I thought about it, the more I realised – I _had to know_.”

“Know what?”

Smile stretching wider Ed adjusts his glasses at the corner and takes a breath before responding. Lucius frowns at the theatrics, but the disapproval is not as deep as it once was.

“Was it good for you?” Ed asks, eyebrows lifting, unable to hold in the chuckle that follows although he bites it back quickly, front teeth pressing down on his lower lip.

The glare Lucius offers him doesn’t dampen Ed’s enthusiasm in the slightest.

“Oh come on, Foxy, don’t keep me in suspense!” He grips and re-grips the back of the chair beside him in glee. “I’ve been up for hours already. So tell me, what’s it going to be? Remorse? Regret? Embarrassment? Shame?” Still gripping the chair he leans forward, elbows jutting out either side of him. “Admiration?” His head drops along with his voice for the last, eyes sparkling at Lucius over the edge of his glasses. “Pride?”

As much as he’d like to, Lucius knows he can’t just stand in silence, Ed will keep needling him until he gets a response. But he doesn’t appreciate the belittling of what they’d shared last night.

“Is that cinnamon in those pancakes?” he says in the end, nodding to the table. “Smells delicious,” he adds, padding over and sitting down in the free chair. 

Ed tips his head back with a sigh.

“More denial, I see,” he berates as he too sits down, arms folding in front of his plate while he watches Lucius serve a couple of pancakes onto his own. “Well that’s disappointing,” Ed continues as Lucius slices his pancakes in two and cuts a small piece off a corner. “But if you want to keep running from yourself that’s your prerogative. You do know though, don’t you, that it’s futile? The truth will catch up with you eventually.” 

The wilful lack of self awareness inherent to this advice is mindboggling and Lucius pauses with a fork of pancake halfway to his mouth to stare.

Then he has an idea.

Returning his fork to the plate he leans forward, resting both elbows on the table and clasping his hands beneath his chin.

“I’ll tell you what.” He pauses. If it’s melodrama Ed wants then Lucius can perform just as well. “I’ll stop. If you will.”

For a second Ed frowns, contemplating the offer and its implication. Then he scoffs.

“Cute,” he says, rolling back his shoulders. “But I’m not running from anything. I know _actually_ who and what I am.”

“Right,” Lucius nods, undeterred. Because while Ed protests Lucius has his attention at least, which is half the battle to making him _listen_. “Because you’re _The Riddler_.’

Ed breathes in as he smiles – smugly, ear-to-ear.

“Well,” he grins. “You said it.”

He doesn’t mean just now of course but Lucius’ humiliation in the night. An endorsement of Ed’s deluded whims that Lucius knows Ed’s broken mind will have taken as a sign of legitimacy, regardless of the context in which it was made. He is going to have to work extra hard to come even close to taking the comment back.

“Yes,” Lucius concedes. No point denying facts. “But – what does it mean?”

“What?”

“Who _is_ The Riddler, exactly?”

“Who is –?” Ed throws up his hands. “ _I am!_ Honestly, Foxy. You’re far too overqualified to play the fool.”

“I’m just trying to understand,” Lucius tells him, slowing his words to make sure he stays calm in the face of Ed’s growing agitation, one hand breaking free to hold between them in a stilling gesture. “So – you’re The Riddler. Because The Riddler is you.” He turns his hand palm up. “You do see the flaw in that kind of circular logic?”

“It’s not –!” Ed snaps, flattening both his palms on the table and leaning in closer himself. But then he presses his lips shut and pulls back again, reigning in his impatience. “Stop… _twisting_ my words,” he mutters with a scowl. “The Riddler is… he’s the Edward Nygma I’m _supposed_ to be.”

Lucius lets his own hands drop down, nodding like this makes sense.

“The stronger, smarter person inside you that you mentioned before.”

“Yes!”

“I see.” Lucius folds in his lips as he considers how best to put his idea into words. “So… the man who got stuck in that window last night, that was the smarter you?”

“That – I didn’t get _stuck_ I –” Ed protests but Lucius continues over him.

“And the man who almost bled out on my kitchen floor, he was stronger?”

“That’s somewhat of an exaggeration, I was hardly at risk of –”

“Or what about the man crying in my bedroom?”

“Enough!” Ed slaps a palm against the table, making the plates and cutlery shake, juice sloshing over the rims of the glasses. “Those were… temporary lapses. They won’t happen again.”

“Really?” Lucius presses. “That’s a shame. I like that guy.”

“You like me bleeding and crying?” Ed wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t take you for a sadist.”

“I like you _real_ ,” Lucius counters, catching Ed’s eye and holding there.

Ed opens his mouth but whatever response he intended withers when Lucius refuses to look away.

“And real people?” Lucius adds, capitalising on Ed’s silence. “They bleed. And they cry. And they make mistakes. And Ed, as much as you might not want to believe it, you _are_ a living, breathing person. So those ‘lapses’ as you call them? They are going to keep happening.”

“No.” Ed shakes his head so hard that his hat, already unstable, begins to wobble. “No, not to me. I just – I just need to be _better_. And I will. With more practice –”

“You’ll what? Finally become this mythical persona you’ve created?” Lucius hurries on before Ed can get another word in. “How will you know? When you’ve made it? When you’re the best you can be? Because if that’s the kind of lofty ideal you’re aiming for, you’re never going to make it. No matter how much you practice, no matter how good you get at whatever it is you think you’re supposed to be doing. That kind of perfect – it doesn’t exist. It’s a fiction. The Riddler is a _fiction_ , Ed. You might as well aspire to be a unicorn.”

Lucius finds his heart racing as he finishes, but he can’t let Ed know that, can’t let him see how badly he wants Ed to take in what he’s saying. Because he knows what will happen then – Ed will turn this around, make it all about Lucius instead of looking to himself like he needs to. So he swallows the emotion down, picks up his fork and takes a bite of pancake to calm himself. If the gesture makes him seem indifferent to whether Ed heeds his speech or not then all the better.

“That’s not – no, I – listen –”

But Lucius doesn’t listen because the unexpected explosion of flavour over his tongue catches him completely unawares and before he knows it he’s humming in delight at the taste.

“Oh my god!” he exclaims as he finishes his mouthful. “These are delicious.”

“Don’t change the subject!” Ed spits but Lucius shakes his head.

“No, really,” he insists, waving his fork over the plate. “These are some of the best pancakes I’ve ever had. And you just made them? Here?”

“Obviously. You _saw_ me.”

“Sorry. No. I meant – my kitchen isn’t exactly well stocked. Did you go out for ingredients?”

“I –” Ed narrows his eyes – trying to deduce some tactic behind the change in topic no doubt. “No, you had enough. Well, you didn’t, but I made do.”

“Made do?” Lucius repeats, amazed. “Well whatever you did, it’s genius.”

Ed’s expression softens at that, cheeks flushing pink as he watches Lucius cut and eat another forkful.

“They’re only pancakes,” he mutters, though Lucius can hear the pride in his voice. “Pancakes are easy. _Cooking_ is easy. Anyone with a basic grasp of science can master it.”

“If that were true,” Lucius argues, pointing his fork with its fresh cut of pancake in Ed’s direction. “I should be a gourmet chef by now.” He bites the pancake off his fork and continues, a little muffled, as he chews. “As it is, I can barely toast a slice of bread without burning it.”

“That’s because you’re just not applying your knowledge properly,” Ed tells him. “Give me two hours and I could teach you how to cook a dozen five star meals without even trying.”

Lucius swallows his mouthful and returns his fork to the plate.

“I’d like that,” he says and it brings both of them up short because it’s the first time Lucius has admitted to desiring Ed’s company.

And more than that – he means it.

Lucius finds cooking a tiresome business on the whole and will actively avoid it whenever possible. But the thought of cooking with Ed – watching the other man absorb himself in something that doesn’t involve breaking the law, standing close and taking instruction while they create something _together_. That doesn’t sound bad at all.

But even as Ed’s lips flicker in a smile they both feel the weight of how unlikely such a thing would be.

“But I suppose The Riddler wouldn’t have time for something as menial as cookery class,” Lucius says and Ed bites his lip.

“He could – I mean… I might…”

His eyes drop and instead of finishing Ed starts to neaten the knife and fork beside his plate. The anxiety fuelling the gesture speaks to inner conflict and if he’s really as torn as he seems Lucius wonders if this could be the chance he’s been waiting for. An opportunity to actually sway the other man.

“You don’t know, do you?” he says, gentle and quiet. Ed doesn’t look up. “It must be exhausting, trying to live up to this person who’s not only meant to be superior to you, but who you don’t even understand? Why not save yourself the anguish and just… be the other guy, be _yourself_ , all the time?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no future for that guy!” Ed growls, head snapping up, eyes blazing. “Beyond rotting away in a cell at Arkham for the rest of his days!”

While the tone and expression scream anger, Lucius knows how fine the line can be between fury and fear, so he doesn’t flinch away.

“That’s not true.”

“Not true?!” Ed’s brief laugh borders on hysterical. “You know what I’ve done.” He points both hands towards himself, splaying his fingers for emphasis. “You think, what? They’re just going to let me off with a slap on the wrist?”

“No, of course not,” Lucius answers. Ed has trouble enough with reality without him sugar coating it. “You’ll have to pay for your crimes, that’s unavoidable. But it doesn’t have to be Arkham.”

“They’re not going to send me to Blackgate, Foxy,” Ed sneers. “If that were an option they’d have done it the first time.”

“There are more than two correctional facilities in the world, Ed.”

“Not in Gotham!”

“So find somewhere outside Gotham.”

From the bewildered, opened-mouthed look Lucius gets in response to this he might as well have advised Ed to fly to the moon.

“I have heard excellent things about the rehabilitation programme at Belle Reve,” he adds to help solidify the option of leaving the city as a real possibility. “Or I hear Iron Heights has –”

“So, wait,” Ed interrupts, raising a hand. “You expect me to just… walk out of the city and hand myself over to some other state’s authority?”

Lucius shrugs and lifts an eyebrow – a muted ‘why not?’

“They’ll just send me right back here,” Ed argues. But really _argues_. He’s not just dismissing the idea, he’s actually engaging with it.

“Not necessarily,” Lucius argues back. “Every doctor has a duty of care to their patients, criminal or otherwise. If you can convince the penitentiary medical team that returning to Gotham is not in your best interests the state would be obliged to hold and sentence you themselves.” It’s easy to sound authoritative about this because Lucius was researching the legality of it all only last week. “That shouldn’t be a problem. You can be very persuasive.”

For just a second Ed’s anger and uncertainty melts into a real smile, soft at the edges. But then he shakes it away.

“It’s a lovely idea,” he says and the words seem heavy with something. Regret, perhaps? Or defeat? “I’d expect no less from an idealist like you. But you’re dreaming if you think any authority is going to listen to a madman turning up alone on their doorstep, no matter how eloquent he may or may not be.”

It doesn’t escape Lucius’ notice what a milestone it is to hear Ed, even indirectly, labelling himself as ‘mad,’ but knowing how sensitive Ed is about the subject of his mental health he ignores the slip and says instead –

“What makes you think you’d be alone?”

Which silences Ed for a good half minute while he processes. When he comes back online, as it were, it’s to glance at Lucius side on, distrustful and disbelieving.

“You’d come with me? _Really?_ ” he scoffs. “You’d travel however far beyond the city? Stay at my side through the checking in process, the medical assessments, the _legal_ assessments, even if it took weeks, _months_ to complete?”

Lucius nods.

“I think the precinct can survive without me for a while.”

“And I suppose you’d visit me as well,” Ed continues, tone still bordering on sarcastic. “Drive down for weekly check ups. Half an hour of awkward, supervised chat across a table or through telephones and glass. Or maybe you’d want to make it more diverting and we’d play some of those second hand games they keep in the waiting area. Some decrepit version of checkers with used bits of gum in place of missing pieces. Or chess on a cheap, wooden set.”

“If you like.”

Ed narrows his eyes.

“And if I said we’d have to leave right now, this second? Today?”

“I’d say – let me get dressed and we’ll go.”

At first Ed just laughs and shakes his head but when Lucius continues to stare him down Ed’s smile starts to dip bit by bit at the edges.

“You mean it,” Ed says after a moment.

It’s not a question, but Lucius answers him anyway.

“I do.”

The longer they stare the thicker the air between them seems to grow and the softer and paler Ed becomes. They teeter there, on the verge of – Lucius doesn’t know what, but it feels _big_ and he doesn’t dare break eye contact for fear it will cause Ed to slip from his grasp when the encroaching shift finally comes.

Then there are footsteps outside his door, the rap of knuckles on wood and a thump and Ed jumps and turns to the doorway, gasping.

Lucius grabs for Ed’s hand as if he were falling.

“Hey,” he says, curling his fingers into Ed’s palm. “It’s just the doorman with my newspaper.”

His movements skittish, Ed glances between Lucius and the door and Lucius can feel him tensing to pull away.

“Ed, listen to me.” Lucius leans over his plate, pulling himself closer but trying to keep his grip on Ed loose and undemanding. “I’m not trying to force you or trick you into anything, I swear.” With the door still closed and the footsteps receding acting in confirmation of this, Ed turns cautiously back to him. “If you do turn yourself in, it needs to be your decision. There’s really no point otherwise.” Ed meets his eye again and swallows. “But if you _do_ make that choice, then yes, I will help you. However I can, for as long as you want me to. I promise. All you have to do is ask.” Ed’s hand has grown slack in his own so Lucius feels safe giving it a light squeeze to reassure Ed of his sincerity. “Okay?”

A multitude of emotions flicker across Ed’s face, too fast for Lucius to follow. His mouth opens and closes, lines stack up over his brow and melt away again, until finally he blinks down at Lucius’ hand on his own. With a shuddering breath Ed lifts his free hand and moves it across. Then falters and brings it to his glasses, shaking them over the bridge of his nose more than effecting a proper adjustment, before reaching down once more. Then stopping. Then starting again. His fingertips ghost the back of Lucius’ hand. Then touch. Then his hand presses down and Ed’s sigh mingles with the one Lucius makes at the same time.

The nodding is almost imperceivable at first but grows firmer as Ed looks up.

“Okay,” he chokes, gripping Lucius tight and tensing all over, like when he’d been bracing for stitches last night.

Lucius nods back, acknowledging Ed’s understanding and the effort it’s cost him with a smile. But when Ed fails to loosen his hold, eyebrows folding down, eyes shining in apprehension, Lucius begins to suspect it may be more than understanding Ed is offering him.

“Wait. Do you mean –?”

“I mean –” Ed starts, voice strained, his top hand starting to knead into Lucius’ skin. “Get dressed and – and let’s go.”

Now it’s Lucius’ turn to assume a punchline, although unlike Ed he feels no urge for pre-emptive laughter. Even less when Ed’s restlessness evolves from kneading to biting with his fingernails – one quick stab into Lucius’ wrist, then Ed yanks his upper hand away, nails digging into his own palm as he presses the back of his thumb to his lips.

“Unless, you don’t –” he mutters.

“No! I mean, yes. I mean –” Lucius stammers, flustered, because he thinks Ed might actually mean it. And if he does, _god_ , who knows when if ever he’ll get another chance like this and damn it he’s _wasting_ it.

Taking a breath, Lucius reaches out and draws Ed’s fisted hand away from his face and back to the table, easing apart Ed’s tense fingers until he’s holding both of Ed’s hands in his own.

“Okay,” he nods. Then he takes another, slower breath that he’s relieved to see Ed make along with him. “Just wait here. I’ll be right back.” When Ed worries his bottom lip in response Lucius searches his mind for something that might keep Ed occupied during those vital few minutes, something to stop him re-thinking and over-thinking and changing his mind. “You could read the paper while you wait,” he suggests. “Start the crossword.”

“ _Start_ it?” Ed’s expression switches from anxious to scornful. “Newspaper crosswords are hardly taxing. I’ll have it completed long before you get back.”

“Really?” Lucius grins, because it’s the perfect distraction. “Well, I’ll be less than five minutes, so – challenge accepted.”

If Ed recognises the ruse for what it is he doesn’t complain, only smiles back and the two of them break away and stand in unison, Ed heading to the front door while Lucius turns back to his bedroom. He waits a moment before stepping inside to watch Ed retrieve the paper, because it’s possible he might bolt when faced with the gaping freedom outside the apartment. But Ed doesn’t stop to contemplate it, he bends down, grabs the paper and turns back, closing the door behind him.

Satisfied, Lucius hurries away to get dressed.

Ordinarily he would resent having to rush his morning routine. He works hard to maintain an orderly outward appearance – something he and Ed have in common he realises, even if Ed’s style has grown significantly flashier than his own of late. But this morning he grabs at whichever item of clothing he finds first without a care to how well any of them match. Because what’s happening, what he’s about to do, is far more important than how he looks.

He tries not to think too far ahead, because anything could happen, anything could _go wrong_ , before he and Ed reach a suitable facility willing to take the other man in. But as he’s tying his shoes over a mismatched pair of socks – one his normal work style black, the other some purple nonsense with a cartoon bat that must have been gifted some Halloween past – he starts to plan the telephone call he’ll have to make to the GCPD to inform them he won’t be coming in to work and his mind floats to how scandalised Harvey Bullock would be if he knew what Lucius was doing. Gordon might be more sympathetic but no, Harvey wouldn’t approve at all. To Harvey, Edward Nygma is nothing but a cop killer – irredeemable and unforgiveable, to be captured by force and locked away forever. And yet, by the end of the day Ed could well be somewhere safe and secure, protected from harming anyone _and himself_ and on the way to recovery, not as a result of violent, brutish police work, but because of kindness and compassion. Lucius can’t deny it will be _gratifying_ informing Harvey that he’s succeeded where the rest of the GCPD have failed.   

After one final check in his pockets for his car keys and wallet, Lucius returns to his living quarters. He checks his watch as he steps through the door – a little theatre for Ed’s benefit to keep things light.

“Less than five minutes as promised. So, did you finish?”

There’s no reply.

Which is unsurprising, Lucius realises as he looks up, because Ed is gone.

There’s nowhere to hide but the room behind him, so the only possible answer is that Ed has left the apartment. But Lucius still calls out, hopeful, regardless –

“Ed?”

Nothing.

He walks to the door and finds it unlatched – which is how Ed must have left without alerting him, avoiding the sound of the door closing.

Pointless as he knows it will be, Lucius opens the door and peers out into the empty hallway.

“Ed?” he tries again.

But of course there’s no response and with a sigh Lucius clicks the door shut and rests his forehead against the wood.

So much for that.

Ed hadn’t been lying when he’d agreed to turn himself in though, Lucius is sure of it. For that one, brief moment Ed had trusted him enough, believed in him enough, to want to seek help. He’d been so close. Should have gone out in his dressing gown, propriety be damned! Or brought Ed with him when he left to get dressed – it’s not as if the man hadn’t seen it all already!

But what’s done is done and nothing’s going to change that now. And Lucius still has the rest of his life to be getting on with.

He allows himself one more breath of regret and recrimination. Then turns.

Time for that shower.

Only when he turns the pancakes and juice are still laid out on the table and it seems a waste to leave them.

He slips into Ed’s vacated chair, now with the comedy apron folded over the back, because returning to his previous seat feels depressing somehow in Ed’s absence. Which is how he finds Ed’s empty plate pushed aside and the morning paper left in its wake, separated into two parts. One part, neatly folded and flattened, is annotated in green pen – the crossword Lucius had challenged Ed to complete. The other part, crumpled from what Lucius assumes is avid reading, is the front page and reading the headline Lucius sees immediately why Ed chose to leave.

‘ **RIDDLER STRIKES** ’ it says in bold type that takes up almost a quarter of the page. Underlined by – ‘ROBS THREE BANKS IN ONE NIGHT!’

So that’s what Ed had been up to before seeking refuge with him last night. Although the knowledge is little consolation to what this exposure of it has cost them both today.

As much as Lucius values freedom of the press, if in that moment he somehow found himself in the presence of the ignoramus responsible for penning this particular article he would gladly have slapped them. Because how could he compete with media infamy? With its thoughtless, sensationalist, money-grabbing rhetoric, one headline had undone in an instant all his hard work at helping Ed see the folly in his villainous counterpart. He almost considers cancelling his subscription to the Gazette there and then as an outlet for his disgust.

A glance at the crossword page holds him in check – because looking closer Lucius sees that Ed hasn’t attempted to solve the puzzle at all. Instead he’s scribbled out one of the clues and substituted it for a riddle of his own making, circling the boxes where the answer would go and shading out all of the others. His clue reads, in swirling cursive –

_‘only given, never taken – pointless for saints, but craved by the forsaken (one word, 11 letters)’_

Shifting the paper sends the pen Ed must have used and left behind rolling out from the folded pages. Lucius catches it as it reaches the edge of the table, removes the cap and uses it to fill in the answer.

It’s an easy one, but Ed had been in a hurry. And Lucius thinks the rhyme was a nice touch.

He takes his time with each letter, trying to mimic the artistry of Ed’s hand. He has limited success, but his efforts are legible at least –

F.O.R.G.I.V.E.N.E.S.S

Perhaps the real riddle, he wonders as he finishes, is not the answer to the clue at all, but whether Ed is asking for it, or offering it?

Either way would imply a need for each other. One that significantly increases the probability of them meeting again and Lucius finding another way to bring Ed back to himself.

He only hopes it will be soon, before The Riddler makes any more headlines.


	3. Feel the Waves Crash Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ed is incarcerated, Lucius comes to visit, and things progress in ways neither of them could have anticipated.  
> [Set in a vague post-S04 future, canon compliant up to 4.13. Title from Remy Zero's "Save Me," because I couldn't resist]  
> [my thanks once again to [@vampirebillionaire](http://vampirebillionaire.tumblr.com/) for acting as scientific advisor!]

When all is said and done – security cameras hacked and disabled, gas piped through the air ducts and the relevant office locked and security sealed – it’s not the crime itself that scares him. Nor is it the fallen bodies he has to wade through or the surprisingly comfortable weight of the gun he’d taken from one of the security team near the door. No, the frightening thing is how _easy_ it all is.

Not the creeping unease that comes when something is _too_ easy – that nagging feeling you’re missing something. It’s the opposite of that.

All the way from conception to planning to implementation every variable has been accounted for, every step calculated with care and precision, all efforts made to ensure nothing went wrong. And nothing has.

Once he’d puzzled out the when and the how he’d followed through exactly and without hesitation and it’s the latter that causes the fear to strike as Lucius stops beside the white silk curtain, lifting the gun to his shoulder to disengage the safety.

That he was physically and intellectually capable of all this was never in doubt. The real obstacle should have been his conscience, but while Lucius has been ready all the way to fight any misgivings that might arise to weaken his resolve, he’s suffered barely a flicker. And that was only over what Bruce might think should he ever discover the crime. But what Bruce doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and if the next part also goes to plan only Lucius will know the truth of what happened here tonight. So as long as he holds his nerve Bruce will never find out. That shouldn’t be too hard – it won’t be the first secret Lucius has kept from the boy.

So he here is, ready to finish this without any qualms whatsoever.

This is the man he’s become.

Or perhaps, his fear whispers, it’s the man he’s always been, deep down. Perhaps all this time he’s just been waiting for this moment, waiting to be free.

He sees then why so many build their lives around this. How the ease of it can make you seem fated to the task. Make you forget the animal horror and the immorality.

But still, the insight and the fear don’t stop him from pinning the curtain aside to reveal the stainless steel panel behind, activated when Lucius put the building into lockdown. Confident the curtained entry is secure, Lucius moves to the onyx door beside it, types the code he’d pre-set into the security panel on the wall and quickly draws his hand back to the gun while the bolts in the lock slide away.

This is the trickiest part of the whole endeavour so he needs to focus. One wrong move could be fatal. He needs to identify the location of the occupant and fire _immediately_ , because Lucius knows his opponent’s defensive skills are not to be underestimated. Even without a firearm there is a variety of office equipment in the room the man could utilise as a weapon and death by paperweight would be a very sorry end indeed to an otherwise perfect plan.

Lucius could have gassed the man along with the others, but it hadn’t seemed fair.

There’s no triumph without adversity.

He grips the gun tight in both hands, ready to aim. He’s never fired a gun before. But there’s a lot of things he’s never done before tonight and he sees no reason this should be a problem anymore than the rest.

But just as he’s about to kick the door open, skin crawling with adrenaline, a voice from inside gives him pause.

“No need to skulk about outside, Mr Fox, it’s perfectly safe to come in. You’re the one with the gun after all.”

All the security cameras are down and there aren’t any monitors in the office in any case. How –?

“You do have a gun, don’t you?” the voice continues. “I can’t imagine you’d favour the intimacy of a blade.”

Ah. Supposition. Logical enough, although the use of his name remains a concern.

The voice sounds distant, as opposed to that of someone lying in wait behind the door, so Lucius prods the onyx slab cautiously with his foot. He holds the gun steady as the door swings open, and tries not to let his surprise distract him from the task at hand.

Instead of lying in ambush or waiting in any of the defensive positions Lucius had anticipated, Oswald Cobblepot is lounging behind his desk like some gothic king, backed by the monstrosity of a chair he’d been quick to refurnish the place with after reclaiming the Lounge from Miss Kean and her associates. The gold cushioning stretches far above his oiled tufts of hair, throwing the rest of his immaculate suit jacket, shirt and cravat into sharp relief. Even with the lockdown covering the circular window behind in a layer of steel, blotting out the moonlight that would otherwise have been streaming through, it’s still an impressive display. But Lucius doesn’t let it intimidate him. He just points the gun at his target as planned and steps further in, keeping his arms steady as he glances round to confirm Oswald is alone.

“Would you care for a drink?” Oswald asks, waving a hand gloved in rich emerald leather at the decanter and glasses beside him on the desk. His other hand, Lucius notes, is resting idle on the polished surface, so it seems unlikely he’s concealing any kind of weapon beneath it.

The civility is confusing. Lucius had expected a confrontation, not a conversation, and lacking experience when it comes to the etiquette of murder he falls back to the good manners his mother raised him with and responds in kind.

“No, thank you,” he answers.

“As you wish,” Oswald nods, smiling politely. “Do you mind if I –?” he goes on, sliding an empty glass before him and resting a hand on the crystal neck of the decanter, eyes lifting back to Lucius as he waits for approval. “Since it may well be my last.”

Lucius didn’t imagine Oswald would fear his own demise – he’s faced death too many times for it to faze him in the same way it would an ordinary man. But neither did Lucius think to find the criminal so _brazen_ in the face of danger. Thrown by this, Lucius can only nod and gesture towards the decanter in silence.

“Thank you,” Oswald answers, removing the sparkling topper and pouring himself a generous amount of the amber liquid inside.

An awkward silence follows, or awkward to Lucius at least, broken only by the sound of Oswald gulping the drink down in one go then smacking his lips as he lowers the glass.

“How did you –?” Lucius starts.

“Know it was you?” Oswald finishes, smirking. “I’ve been expecting you for some time. And when the gas and the lockdown started I realised you must have chosen tonight to make your move. None of my other enemies are smart enough to pull off something like this, you see.” Beneath the lavish mascara his green eyes glitter, smile puffing up his cheeks. Like he’s proud to have earned himself a new, more intelligent adversary. “I’d ask how you did it, but I’ve never had much of a head for mechanics and technical things.” He lifts both hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, unperturbed by this truth about himself. This is a man, Lucius thinks, who knows who he is. Knows his strengths and his weaknesses and how to master both. A very different kind of criminal to the one Lucius has lately grown accustom. “I’ll be sure to hire someone to find out though,” Oswald continues. “And update my system so it can’t happen again. Maybe fire my existing security team for the failure. Assuming,” he adds with a shrug. “I’m still here tomorrow of course!”

He chuckles, like the possibility he might not survive the night is no more than a dinner party joke, and it takes Lucius a moment to get over that. They’re alone, the gun is loaded and Oswald is cut off from any means of escape. Is Lucius really so ineffectual a threat that all of that should mean nothing?

Perhaps confirmation as to why he’s here will help make the kingpin take him seriously.

“You’re wrong,” Lucius tells him. “There is someone else smart enough to do this.”

Oswald hums around his smile.

“True,” he nods. “But he’s no longer a concern.”

“No,” Lucius agrees, arms tensing so the gun in his hands shakes, but just for a moment. “You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

Oswald’s long, delicate lashes flick down and up in a blink. He tilts his head, smile fading as he stares at Lucius anew.

Then bursts into laughter.

His resting hand splays over the desk, hand on the glass drawing away to wave beside his dipping head.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters between the last, lingering sniggers. “It’s just –” He gives a final, breathy chuckle as he looks up again, waving one more apology before his hand drops back down. “ _That’s_ why you’re here? This is, what, some kind of _righteous crusade?_ For _him?_ ”

Lucius tries not to let the knot this reaction twists into his stomach show, but knows from the growing tension across his brow he’s not been entirely successful.

“What else did you think I was here for?” he asks, chastising himself as he does for the tremor of anger that escapes with the words.

“I have found good old fashioned revenge to be a great motivator for all kinds of violence,” Oswald answers, calm in the face of Lucius’ slip. A smug, superior composure that only serves to heighten Lucius’ growing turmoil. “But I should have known a man like you would need more than that.”

The certainty in Oswald’s tone has Lucius gritting his teeth. As if this man knows the first thing about him!

“What kind of man am I, then?”

He takes a couple of steps forward into the centre of the room, not once dropping his aim. But Oswald’s gaze doesn’t even touch the gun, lifting instead to Lucius’ face and fixing there.

“The gentle, compassionate, law-abiding kind,” Oswald tells him. There’s no mockery or reproach in the assessment, only a faint trace of pity. Like he’s exposing some common, but no less embarrassing, weakness. “The kind who could _never_ bring himself to take another man’s life in cold blood.”

It’s when Oswald’s lips curl up, deep enough to dimple his cheeks, that Lucius realises this isn’t bravado. Oswald isn’t hiding his fear, because there is no fear for him to hide. He doesn’t consider Lucius an ineffectual threat. He doesn’t consider Lucius a threat _at all_. There isn’t any part of him that believes, even for a moment, that Lucius is going to kill him.

“Well I guess we’ll see,” Lucius says, adjusting his aim to Oswald’s forehead, finger curling over the trigger. “Won’t we?”

 

* * *

 

**Five months earlier**

 

After an exhausting day helping to autopsy the last remaining victims of the city-wide war against Sofia Falcone, followed by more fruitless hours spent trying to engineer a vaccine for Miss Pepper’s ever evolving plant based toxins, Lucius is ready for little more than a hot drink and fall into bed. So when he notices his door is ajar, two of his three locks hanging loose from their hinges and his doorframe splintered in several places, he can only shake his head, shoulders slumping. Of course, why not a robbery as well? It’s been that kind of day.

But the devastation he finds once he’s summoned up the energy to push the door open the rest of the way is not at all what he expected. His apartment hasn’t been looted, simply trashed. His kitchen table and chairs lay fallen on their sides; his sofa is toppled on its back, bits of fluff poking out of slashes made in the cushions; and his glass coffee table is smashed to pieces, TV lying broken at the centre. Meanwhile, bits and pieces of what were once mugs and plates litter his kitchen counter and floor – taken, it would seem, from now empty open cupboards.

And yet none of that is what catches and holds his attention. That would be the jacket left strewn across the floor beside the kitchen island. Not so surprising perhaps – neon green is hard to miss.

Stepping closer reveals something else as well.

Blood.

There’s spots of it mixed with the broken porcelain, and patches and smears at shoulder height over the cream-coloured wall next to his bedroom door.

Also next to the door, upside down on the floor and dented as though thrown there with force, is a black bowler hat. 

A surge of adrenaline fills Lucius from head to toe and his exhaustion is forgotten.

It’s been weeks since anyone heard from The Riddler. After the bloody overthrow of Miss Falcone he’d just… disappeared. In stark contrast to his criminal peers, like Freeze and Ivy and the Scarecrow, whose deadly and increasingly bizarre antics are stretching the GCPD to their limits on an almost daily basis at this point.

For most people Nygma’s absence had been a cause for celebration. But the silence has been nagging at Lucius, like an itch he can’t scratch.

Not that it really made a difference, knowing where Ed was or not. There’d been no contact between them for months, not since the night they’d spent together after The Riddler’s triple bank heist. But Lucius couldn’t get that night, and the brief intimacy they’d shared, out of his mind. Not even Miss Pepper’s supernatural influence had managed to do that, although, fond as the memories of Ed and himself were, they hadn’t been enough to break his embarrassingly exuberant devotion to the girl while intoxicated.

He’d known it was foolish, this hope he kept nursing that he might one day have the chance to connect to the man again. And fortunately there’d been plenty to distract him from it. Secret strigine organisations to fight; city wide infections to manufacture antidotes for; porcine themed serial killers to catch; covert Wayne Enterprise projects to oversee. The list went on and on.

So he’d thrown himself into his work and tried to forget how close he and Ed had been that night and the morning after. Tried not to care what the man chose to do with his life after leaving Lucius’ kitchen without so much as a goodbye.

But it was hard when Ed insisted on engaging in such self-destructive behaviour, like offering himself as a lamb to the slaughter for the shadowy Court of Owls, using wild threats and manipulation to force Jim Gordon’s hand and place himself in their murderous clutches. Although part of Lucius did wonder, just maybe, if he’d been there at the GCPD that night when Ed was making his threats, perhaps things would have been different.

It wasn’t until it transpired that Oswald Cobblepot was still alive, however, that Lucius felt his hope truly dwindle. You didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to recognise how deeply Ed’s identity had become tangled with The Penguin’s and Lucius had assumed one or both of the criminals would be the end of the other sooner than later. And either way Ed would be lost to him.

Ultimately Oswald had proven Lucius correct in this, although no one could have predicted the macabre centrepiece he would go on to make of Ed in his new club.

Lucius had tried his best to oppose the injustice of the spectacle, demanding Jim, Harvey, anyone at the precinct who would listen, take legal action. But Oswald had too many politicians in his pocket offering ironclad paperwork that proved his display above board and the time Lucius might have devoted to the matter was taken up with other things. Such as helping Bruce and Alfred in the aftermath of their altercation with the man who called himself The Demon’s Head.

Neither of them had ever explained just what happened that night when Alfred followed his brainwashed charge into that mysterious underground section of the city and emerged with Bruce wholly himself again and Alfred in critical condition. Lucius knew only that the miraculous, if volatile, Lazarus water that had formed the basis for Project M had been involved. But while he had been frantic with questions all through Alfred’s recovery, he hadn’t dared to ask. Because it was clearly a family matter. And regardless of his ever growing parental feelings towards Thomas’ son, Lucius is _not_ _family_. So he’s hovered in the background only ever since, offering quiet, practical support whenever he can. Which has been particularly frequent of late with Bruce’s recent proclivity for secret projects and ‘rock climbing.’

There’d been a time after Edward’s icy prison was destroyed that hope had resurfaced. For weeks Lucius had come home with baited breath, wondering if Ed might once again take refuge in his apartment. But Ed had stayed away.

And when Lucius learnt from Jim that Ed was living in the Narrows with Doctor Thompkins he’d respected the distance Ed had put between them and stayed away too. Taking comfort from the fact that at least Ed was safe and with someone qualified to get him the help he needed.

That Ms Thompkins had failed to keep Ed from falling back to his psychosis means that logically Lucius, with no medical qualifications to his name, has little to no chance of doing any better.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t try, Lucius thinks, as he pulls open his bedroom door.

When he sees the figure crouched on the floor at the end of his bed Lucius can actually feel his heart stop.

Ed is stripped to his shirt sleeves with his back to the edge of the mattress. He has his knees to his chest, elbows pressing into his thighs and the balls of his hands against his forehead. One of his cuffs has come undone and is hanging loose halfway down his forearm. Lucius can’t see Ed’s face with the line of his arms in the way, but he can see Ed’s head shaking from time to time followed by inaudible muttering, as though in answer to some question only he can hear. Also visible, strikingly so, are the bloody scrapes across Ed’s knuckles, still fresh and welling up in places.

Lucius is not one for expletives, but given the circumstances he doesn’t begrudge himself the soft ‘fuck’ that slips out with his next breath.

“Ed?” he calls, rushing forward and dropping to his knees beside the other man. Ed doesn’t respond, just keeps shaking his head and muttering. “Edward?” Lucius tries again without success. Could this be some kind of psychotic break? If it is then god knows what Ed might be seeing or hearing right now. Lucius lifts a hand but is scared to touch in case it increases Ed’s distress. “Ed, can you hear me?” he tries instead, louder this time.

“Just – just go away!” Ed chokes without looking, fingers scratching and twisting into his hair.

“Ed, it’s me. It’s Luci – It’s Foxy.”

Ed shakes his head harder, burrowing deeper into the protective shield of his arms, wrists knocking his glasses askew.

“No. No,” he moans. “No it’s not. I know it’s not. Please just leave me alone, please.”

The anguish in Ed’s voice is too much.

“Ed, it’s okay.” Lucius leans forward. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

He touches a hand, still gloved, to Ed’s exposed forearm and Ed’s response is electric. As soon as the black leather brushes his skin Ed jolts up with a long, shuddering gasp, his other hand darting out fast as lightening to grip Lucius tight about the wrist.  

They hold like that for a second, Ed’s fingers twisting tighter, his eyes wide and wet as he stares, tear tracks visible down his cheeks.

“L – Lucius?” he whispers and Lucius blinks at the use of his actual name. “Is it really you this time?”

“Yeah,” Lucius nods, choosing to ignore, for the moment, what ‘this time’ might imply. “Yeah it’s really me.”

He brings his free hand to the back of the one Ed has clasped about his wrist, pressing lightly to avoid aggravating the broken skin. It takes a few seconds more but then, with a sharp nod and puffed out breath Ed finally accepts Lucius’ presence, grip turning slack as he slumps against the bed, other hand dropping over his chest and resting against his shoulder.

“Ed, what happened?”

“Oh, god –” Ed turns his head towards the open door and the devastation beyond. “Your home I – I’m sorry – I –”

His head starts to shake again and this time the rest of him trembles with it.

“Hey, hey.” Lucius squeezes Ed’s arm, just enough to draw Ed’s attention back to him. “Don’t worry about that,” he says. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Ed presses his lips together, takes a deep breath through his nose and swallows.

“I had a, uh – I had an altercation.”

“Altercation?” Lucius repeats. “With who?”

A fight would make sense of some of the damage and Ed is not wanting when it comes to enemies. Penguin or one of his thugs perhaps. That bald assassin. There’s no love lost between Ed and Miss Kean or Tabitha Galavan either. Could the assailant still be close? Lucius could call the GCPD for protection, although Ed might not approve. Perhaps he could take them both somewhere safer? Arriving at Wayne Manor with a wanted criminal in tow might be frowned upon by Bruce and Alfred, especially Alfred, but Lucius doesn’t think they’d turn him away.

“Myself,” Ed replies, face crumbling at the admission.

Lucius dismisses his theories. No outside threat, then, just the inner one Ed has been battling for years.

“I came here because I… well I, I wanted to stay. To wait for you,” Ed goes on. “But then he – I mean – then I thought maybe I shouldn’t and – well we fought and…” He glances to the door again. “And I won.” He gives a helpless shrug as he turns back to Lucius. “I guess?”

Ed hunkers down a bit, like he’s expecting physical punishment for the confession. Remembering what he’d learnt about Ed’s father all those months ago Lucius’ heart bleeds for him at that.

“Okay.” Lucius nods but otherwise doesn’t move, not wanting to give Ed any reason to be afraid of him. Or to think that what he’s describing is deserving of punishment. Ed talking openly about his irrational behaviour, and apparently being cognizant of it _as_ irrational, is something Lucius wants to _encourage_ not reject. “Why were you waiting for me?”

“I –” Ed turns away, sucking on his bottom lip. “Do you – do you remember,” he continues in hesitant fits and starts. “When you told me that – that if I wanted to get help you – I – I just had to ask?”

“Yes.”

“Is that –?” Ed drops his head, like he’s afraid to meet Lucius’ eye and find a wrong answer there. “Is that still true?”

“Yes,” Lucius repeats.

When Ed looks up his eyes are shining, new tears catching on his lashes, as though desperate to fall but not sure yet how to make that commitment.

“Then h-help me, Lucius,” he stammers, blinking the teardrops free. “Please?”

“Of course,” Lucius answers, without hesitation. “Of course I'll help you.”

He untangles himself from the messy grip between the two of them and holds Ed gently by the wrists, avoiding his bloody knuckles. Ed gives a watery smile that fades before he's finished making it, so Lucius keeps smiling for him.

“How about we clean you up, alright?” he says, rubbing his thumbs into Ed's palms in what he hopes is a soothing motion. “Then you can get some rest. And in the morning we –”

“No,” Ed interrupts, shaking his head. Once. Then twice. Then again and again. “No, no, no, we have to go now.”

“Ed, you don't have to rush into this, you –”

“No, you don't understand!” Ed jerks his hands back, not enough to free himself but enough to jolt Lucius momentarily off-balance, voice rising as he continues. “I can't wait until morning! I can't – I don't –” He bares his teeth and sucks in a couple of fast breaths. “I don't think I'm strong enough to make this decision again. Foxy, please!”

“Ed, calm down, it’s fine,” Lucius hurries to reassure him, fearful that Ed might start lashing out like he must have done in the other room. The return to ‘Foxy’ also bodes ill. “We can leave now, it’s no problem.”

With some effort Ed slows his breathing and nods.

“Where did you want to go?” Lucius asks, thinking of how much gas he has in his car. A trip as far a Metropolis will need more and waiting with Ed at a gas station could be tricky, but on the other hand Ed might fall asleep during a long road trip, which would be beneficial to both of them.

But Ed twists his lips, chews on a corner and shakes his head.

“Just take me to Arkham.”

“It doesn’t have to be Arkham,” Lucius tells him, unnerved by the defeatist slump of Ed’s shoulders. “Remember last time we talked about –”

“I know, I know, I know, but I – I’m in no condition to argue my case. I can barely keep it together right now. They’ll take one look at me and send me right back. No matter where I go they’re just going to send me back I know it!” He does pull a hand free this time and twists it into his hair, pulling and scratching like he’d been when Lucius first found him, head turning from Lucius’ gaze. “It just – it’s always going to be Arkham.” Using the ball of his hand he starts to tap against the side of his head. “It has to be Arkham!”

His taps continue and grow more violent until Lucius reaches up and grabs his wrist again to stop him.

“Okay, okay we’ll go to Arkham,” he says, straining against the ongoing pulses in Ed’s arm as the other man tries to keep hitting. “ _We’ll go to Arkham_ ,” Lucius repeats, fear making his own voice start to rise and his hand grip tighter. Ed has already drawn blood, and that was while he had relative control of himself – there’s no telling what violence he might inflict if he were to break down completely.

The rise in volume and stronger grip make Ed flinch and his fight dissolves into trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Lucius says, horrified to think that despite his best efforts he really has made himself something to fear. “I’m sorry, Ed, I didn’t mean to –”

“No, it – it’s me,” Ed cuts in, blinking away more tears as he looks up. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Foxy. I –” He shifts, legs curling under him and all but falls into Lucius, clutching at the flaps of his coat as Lucius wraps his arms around Ed and holds him close. “I try and I try, but I keep getting it _wrong,_ ” Ed murmurs into Lucius’ chest. “It’s like every time I get close to putting it all together the pieces get lost or – or broken and they no longer _fit_.” He shivers and Lucius hooks his chin over the mess of Ed’s hair, tucking him in closer still, one hand rubbing soft and slow up and down Ed’s back. “I just want to get it _right_. I _need_ to get it right. Just once, so I know I can. I need to get it right this time.”

“Hey, you can,” Lucius tells him, pulling back just enough to catch Ed’s eye. “You can,” he repeats, thumbing away the damp tracks lining Ed’s cheeks. “Coming here was a good start. How about we figure out the rest together?”

This seems to calm Ed because his breathing grows even, shoulders relaxing, and he nods into Lucius’ hands.

“Come on,” Lucius continues, pushing to his feet and offering Ed his arm. “Let’s go.”

Ed accepts with another nod, wrapping a hand about Lucius’ forearm and hauling himself up. He stumbles a little once upright, but Lucius is there slipping an arm about his shoulders to keep him steady and they walk out of the bedroom together.

It’s slow going with Ed clinging to him all the way but they make it to the front door without incident.

“It’s cold out,” Lucius notes as he reaches for the door handle. “Did you want your jacket?”

The jacket in question is still lying crumpled in the kitchen and Lucius twists round, ready to retrieve it. But Ed resists, turning rigid in his arms and viciously shaking his head, refusing to even look at the green fabric.

“Okay,” Lucius tells him, giving Ed a gentle pat before moving away so he can remove his own coat. “Here,” he goes on, draping the blue wool over Ed’s shoulders.

“Foxy –” Ed starts to protest.

“It’s fine. Come on.”

Lucius draws Ed back into his arms and Ed falls silent as they head outside.

By the time they reach the car Ed has grown pliant, offering neither resistance nor aid as Lucius opens the door for him, just folding himself into the passenger seat and waiting, slumped and shivering. Like an unruly child with a broken spirit. The blank, unfocused look in Ed’s eyes scares Lucius a bit and part of him wants to take Ed by the shoulders and shake him just to get him talking, to make him familiar again. But he can’t risk anything that might scare Ed away, not when they’re so close to getting him real, professional help at last, so Lucius just leans across and buckles him in, closes the door and hurries to the driver’s side.

The journey continues with Ed in the same near comatose state, staring unseeing at Lucius’ dashboard, moving only now and then to shiver.

It’s uncanny – the stillness and lack of chatter. While Ed’s talk and dramatics have been known to border on obnoxious, seeing him so morose feels unnatural. No matter what, Ed is _vibrant_ , even if his energy is often anxious and misplaced. He shouldn’t just be sitting there unresponsive, it’s _wrong_ , and Lucius finds himself pushing his car that little bit faster than he’s supposed to in an effort to get to Arkham sooner.

“I won’t sting,” Ed says, out of the blue, after what feels like the hundredth nervous glance Lucius has shot his way.

“What?”

When he glances back Lucius catches a fleeting curve at the corner of Ed’s lips and is comforted by the slyness of the smile.

“You’re the fox taking the scorpion up the river,” Ed explains. “You think I’ll sting you and doom us both. But I won’t, I promise.” There’s only so much Lucius can see while keeping his eyes on the road, but while the subtleties of Ed’s expression elude him the way Ed drops his head and chews his lip is clear enough. “But then, I suppose that’s exactly what the scorpion says, isn’t it? So it’s not very reassuring.” 

Lucius ponders this as he turns the next corner, recalling the message of forgiveness Ed had left him in the crossword after their last encounter. An offer but also a plea. This commentary feels similar – a pre-emptive apology for whatever might happen next. Ed resigning himself to being trapped forever by his own narrative.

Unless, perhaps, Lucius can convince him otherwise.

“It was a frog, wasn’t it?” he comments over his shoulder. Lightly, to keep it casual.

“Hmmm?” Ed queries, already sinking back into his previous depressive state.

“In the fable,” Lucius clarifies. “It’s a frog that carries the scorpion across the river.”

“Oh,” Ed murmurs. “Yes. Well. Poetic license, you know?” His voice grows sharper – an echo of the keen mind Lucius remembers. “Because you’re no frog,” Ed adds and in the corner of his eye Lucius sees Ed’s expression melt into a familiar smirk. “Foxy.”

Taking advantage of the short pause offered by a red light, Lucius turns properly to smile at the compliment.

“And you’re not a scorpion, Ed,” he says, heartened by the way Ed’s eyes brighten at the words. “Maybe this is a different story.”

Ed sucks in his lips, turning his smirk to something warmer, soft lines forming at the corners of his eyes.

“Maybe…” he whispers.

Then the light turns green and they continue on their way.

 

* * *

 

The uniformed guard behind the security gate inside the asylum looks about twelve by Lucius’ reckoning. Not that he is in any position to make judgements on someone’s character based on age, knowing better than most the extraordinary things young people are capable of. But the kid’s bored hum of a greeting when Lucius walks up with Ed in tow doesn’t inspire, nor does the way his eyes stay fixed on the magazine laid out on the desk in front of him.

“Um, hello,” Lucius begins, flashing a quick look Ed’s way to check the other man is still with him.

Ed had tensed as they drove through the looming iron gates and while he’d been calm enough as they left the car Lucius had noticed him draw his hands to his chest as they walked and start tugging and twisting at the woollen sleeves of Lucius’ coat.

If Ed were to bolt on him now, Lucius can’t say he’d blame the man – the place looks particularly gothic and foreboding in the moonlight. But Ed has his hands thrust deep in the coat’s pockets at the moment, gazing intently at his shoes, and the posture seems docile enough.

“My name is Lucius Fox, I’m with the GCPD,” Lucius continues, trying to catch the guard’s eye through the diamond wire, but the rim of his hat keeps his face in shadow, making it impossible. “I’m here to, uh, to check in a patient.”

“Prisoner ID number?” the boy drawls without looking up.

“I’m sorry?”

“What’s the prisoner’s ID number?”

Lucius flicks his eyes back to Ed in time to see him hunch over, shoulders spiking up beside his ears. He must have had a number last time he was admitted here and it’s likely Ed remembers it. But considering how on edge the other man is at the moment Lucius decides it’s best to involve Ed as little as possible in this part of the process.

“He doesn’t have one,” Lucius answers, turning back to the guard, who actually bothers to lift his face at last.

“All arrests transferred to Arkham are issued with an ID number,” he says, reproachful, before going on to sigh and reach for the telephone next to the CCTV monitor. “Gimme your badge number and I’ll call the precinct, they should have it on file.”

“I’m not a police officer,” Lucius tells him, a little sharp because the boy’s attitude is starting to grate. “I’m with forensics. And there hasn’t been an arrest. I’m just here to check someone in.”

The guard flashes an incredulous smile.

“Hey pal, what do you think this is – a hospital?” he scoffs. “We don’t take walk ins.”

While Lucius had expected some difficulties on arrival, this is a level of insolence and impropriety far in excess of what he’d prepared for. And it was his understanding the place had _improved_ now it was no longer in the malevolence hands of Hugo Strange. Of course he understands Arkham is a prison, but it’s also a medical facility – talk like this in front of potential, _vulnerable_ patients is unacceptable and Lucius has a good mind to march himself and Ed right back to the car. But Ed had been so hysterical at the thought of travelling somewhere else Lucius suspects that at this point, despite the inadequacies of the place, leaving would be a greater risk to Ed’s health than staying. So he breathes in deep through his nose to calm his growing discontent and keeps his voice even as he replies.

“You’re going to take this one.”

He nods to Ed and the guard, rolling his eyes all the while, finally glances in Ed’s direction.

Somehow holding himself impossibly tenser, Ed lifts his chin and gives the guard a flat smile.

“Hi.”

The guard’s reaction is immediate, wild and not unsatisfying.

The kid leaps to his feet, metal chair legs screeching across the floor behind him, and flails his arms – one waving palm out, the other flapping beneath his jacket in search of a weapon.

“Whoa, is that –?”

“Yes,” Lucius answers and there’s certainly respect in the guard’s eyes when he turns to him this time. And suspicion. And a decent amount of fear. Ed’s reputation may not be as large as those of the other high-profile criminals in the city, but what he does have precedes him. 

“What’s going on here?” the guard snaps, pushing to his feet and, somewhat belatedly, drawing his gun. Using both hands he points it first at Ed, then Lucius, then back again.

“I told you,” Lucius says, lifting his palms to his shoulders. “I’m here to check in a patient. That’s all.”

“So you’re… you’re saying he surrendered?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

This doesn’t seem to reassure the boy, who maintains his defensive stance, eyes flicking back and forth between Lucius and Ed, knuckles white around the handle of his weapon. Lucius realises he needs to defuse this situation fast before it escalates.

“Okay,” Lucius carries on, calmly and slow. “Ed? Would you step back for a moment?”

Ed does so without question, slinking back against the wall to their right and a few steps along. Lucius isn’t happy about losing sight of his impromptu charge, but right now the guard is a far greater concern.

“This isn’t a trick,” Lucius insists, stepping closer to the letter box shaped hole in the security fence so he can speak to the young man more easily. It looks like Ed’s subdued manner and his own calm has started to get through to the boy because he lowers his weapon and creeps closer to the fence in turn, facing Lucius through the wire. “Now listen to me, this is what you’re going to do,” Lucius continues. “You’re going to call the GCPD, like you said, and you’re going to ask to speak to Captain James Gordon. He’s working late tonight, you should get through to him quickly, and he knows me, so he’ll confirm who I am. You’re going to explain the situation and tell him he needs to come down here as soon as possible. He’ll have all the information you need.” Lucius speaks quickly but firmly, keeping his voice low to avoid Ed overhearing. He’s not sure how Ed will feel about getting Jim involved and Lucius isn’t thrilled about it himself. He’d been hoping to avoid making this a police matter until morning. But if it’s the only way of placating the guard then so be it. “Once you’ve finished your call,” he goes on. “You’re going to make the necessary arrangements for a new arrival and call us when you’re ready. We’ll be waiting just out here.”

The guard hesitates, gazing over Lucius’ shoulder. But Ed must appear sufficiently non-threatening because in the end the boy nods and clips his gun back into his holster.

“Do you, uh, do you need me to call security?” he leans forward to whisper.

“Thank you, but no, that won’t be necessary,” Lucius answers.

Something very much like awe flashes in the boy’s eyes at that. But Lucius shakes the idea away and berates himself for the conceit. Although a glow of pride remains as the guard nods again, picks up the phone and obediently keys in the number for the GCPD.

Leaving the boy to it, Lucius turns to find Ed waiting a few paces away down the corridor, the knuckles of one hand pressed to his lips, thumb tapping at the side.

“Hey,” Lucius calls, soft, as he walks over. “How you holding up?”

“Oh, you know,” Ed mutters, stilling the agitated tapping by tucking his thumb into his fist and drawing his hand away just enough to speak clearly. “Reliving old memories.”

“Ed.” Lucius rests a hand on the other man’s coat sleeve. Or rather, his own coat sleeve, technically. “It’s not too late, you know. We can still get out of here. Find somewhere else. Somewhere with less… history.”

Ed lifts the hand from his pocket and folds it over Lucius’ knuckles. It’s a slow gesture, measured, and the calmest Lucius has seen Ed all night.

“Thank you,” Ed says, eyes shining. Or perhaps it’s just the light catching his lenses. The moment stretches and Lucius has just started calculating the best route to Metropolis when Ed blinks and shakes his head. “But, no. No, I think – better the devil you know.” He squeezes Lucius’ hand then draws both of his own back into the depths of the coat pockets. “Besides, after Strange left it wasn’t _so_ bad. At least I won’t have to worry about monsters in the basement.”

He flashes a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“True,” Lucius nods, hands slipping into his pockets as well. And since they are making light of the Asylum’s past he adds – “Or being asked to gas innocent men and children.”

When Ed’s eyes widen at the comment Lucius quirks his lips up at the side to assure Ed he meant it in jest. The incident in question is far behind them now and one of many Ed has come here tonight to move past and atone for. Lucius doesn’t plan to stand in the way of that by holding grudges.

In any case, with time and distance from the crime allowing Lucius what he feels to be a more objective assessment he has begun to suspect it is not Ed who should be held most accountable for what happened to Bruce and himself that night, but the man in charge of the facility. Strange had twisted this place into his own personal laboratory, taking advantage of so many sick and vulnerable patients in his care all to fulfil his own, demented curiosities. Ed was just one of the people the villain had used and abused and discarded when he was done.

Just like Thomas.

“No,” Ed agrees, relaxing. “No more of that.” They share a smile and despite the draft flooding the hallway Lucius feels warm. “Anyway,” Ed continues. “It would be a shame to make Jim Gordon come all the way down here for nothing.”

“Ah,” Lucius answers, smile dropping. “You overheard?”

“No. It was simply the most logical way forward for dealing with our trigger happy friend.” Ed nods to the guard over Lucius’ shoulder and Lucius glances back to find the kid deep in conversation over his radio, making the necessary arrangements for Ed’s arrival as instructed he hopes. “It’s fine,” Ed continues. “You’d have been a fool not to call the precinct and in any case, they needed to know sooner or later. I’ve been on both sides of this, remember? I know how it works. Best to get it over with.” His eyes drop down and he takes a breath. “I want you to know Fox –” Ed closes his eyes with a grimace. “ _Lucius_ ,” he corrects, snapping his gaze back to Lucius and holding there. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Tonight. Before. I – I couldn’t have made it here without you. I – I won’t forget it.”

There’s a sense of finality to this statement that makes Lucius frown.

“This sounds a lot like ‘goodbye’ Ed,” he notes. “You really think I’d abandon you now? I’ll stay until you’re settled.”

“That’s kind,” Ed tells him with another broken smile. “But the rest of the procedure is confidential. You don’t have the clearance.”

“Oh.” Foolish of him not to have considered the legal details of this part. Being neither a cop nor a relative Lucius has no right to accompany Ed into the facility. That should have been obvious.

“And there’ll be a… a physical examination first,” Ed adds. “Make sure I’m not smuggling drugs or weapons or poisonous gas inside my person.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Lucius mutters. In any other city, he thinks, Ed’s last example would be hyperbole and not a legitimate precaution based on prior experience. But in Gotham penitentiaries thorough physical examinations were an invasive but sadly necessary evil and it made sense Ed would want to minimise the number of spectators sitting in on his. “You’ll want the privacy, that’s understandable.”

Except Ed bites his bottom lip and turns his head with a non-committal hum over this in a way that rings alarm bells.

“Ed?” he presses but Ed keeps his face angled away. “Ed do you – would you _like_ me to come in with you?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s against the rules.”

“Maybe, but –”

“Nygma!” a deep voice shouts behind him. “Knew you’d be back.”

Ed stills a moment, then plasters a wide grin across his face that he directs over Lucius’ shoulder.

“Nurse Holloway,” he calls through gritted teeth. “You’re still here? How delightful.”

Lucius turns to find a large, stocky woman in one of the Asylum’s drab nurse’s uniforms being let through the gate. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and her short, wiry hair sports a gravity defying white hat with a blue stripe along the rim.

“Alright, let’s go,” she nods to Ed. “Or do you need me to call some of the boys to help?”

“No I – I’m coming,” Ed replies, stepping forward. “Oh, wait.” He turns and strips off Lucius’ coat. “Thanks. Bye,” he mutters, handing it back, and Lucius takes it on autopilot. This is all happening much faster than he expected.

Hunched over in his torn white shirt Ed looks too thin and distressingly fragile as he walks towards the waiting nurse, long arms hugging his chest. A gust of wind seems force enough to knock him over, so when the nurse reaches out a strong arm and grabs Ed by the shoulder tight enough to bruise, Ed’s gasp and wince galvanise Lucius into action.

“Wait!” he cries, folding his coat over an arm and hurrying after them. “I’m coming with you.”

“Sorry, not allowed,” the nurse tells him in unforgiving monotone, one arm pushing Ed through the gate, the other holding the door. “Against the rules.”

She lifts her hand off the door but Lucius digs his fingers into the wire and keeps it from closing.

“I understand that,” he says with a courteous nod. “But considering the extenuating circumstances regarding Mr Nygma’s arrival tonight surely we can wave the rules this once?”

The nurse gives him a blank stare.

“The extenu-what-now?”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Ed repeats, twisting under her hold. “It means a situation where the rules aren’t applicable because –”

“Hey!” the nurse snaps, shaking Ed in a way Lucius is sure violates both prison duty of care and the Hippocratic Oath. “Don’t give me any of your lip, Nygma!” Meaty hand still clamped tight around a now silent and submissive Ed, she turns back to Lucius. “Only cops and family allowed with the prisoners during check in, that’s the rule. No matter how fancy your circumstance are.”

Lucius glances at the guard, but the kid is back in his chair with his head once again buried, pointedly, in his magazine.

“Bye now,” the nurse says, using her free hand to push down on the other side of the door. Lucius tries to resist but is soon outmatched in strength, arm shaking as he tries to hold on.

“Foxy, it’s fine, really,” Ed calls over the nurse’s shoulder, voice strained, as the door clicks shut.

“Don’t worry,” the nurse adds and as she stares at Lucius through the wire the light casts harsh, criss-crossing shadows over her face. The shapes look like a macabre mask, or ferocious war paint.  “We’ll take care of him.” 

She turns and pushes Ed in front of her down the corridor, hard enough that Ed actually stumbles and Lucius shouts after them.

“Do you know Bruce Wayne?”

Whether it’s the question itself or the steel edge to his tone that grabs her attention Lucius can’t say, but the nurse stops and looks back.

“He’s the owner of Wayne Enterprises. The company that’s responsible for approximately ninety percent of this facility’s funding, including staff salary,” he explains. “So you might say, Bruce Wayne is directly responsible for keeping you, and everyone else here, in a job.” Lucius takes a breath. “He’s also a personal friend of mine,” he adds and the audacity astounds him. Not because it’s inaccurate, obviously, but because he’s never used his connections to the Waynes this way before. Never. The thought of using a friendship in such an entitled fashion has always repulsed him. But blood is pulsing in his ears from the rush of it now and he can’t stop. “I think Bruce would be very interested to know how the employees here conduct themselves. He has quite the personal interest in this establishment you understand, as one of the last ventures his parents were known to support before they passed. It would be a shame to have to tell him the standards were in any way lacking.”

The unspoken threat weighs heavy in the silence that follows and Lucius stares the nurse down, undaunted, a follow through conversation with Bruce already forming at the back of his mind should this tactic fail. But after a tense few seconds the nurse turns to the guard’s desk and nods. Lucius turns as well and catches a glimpse of the kid’s wide-eyes above his now abandoned magazine. Then the guard is ducking his head and pressing a button next to the CCTV monitor, unlocking the gate.

Without another word Lucius opens it and steps through, holding himself grim and defiant in the face of the nurse’s glare as he makes his way to Ed’s other side. When he stops he lets his eyes settle on the nurse’s vice-like grip about Ed’s upper arm until she reluctantly lets go.

“This way,” she growls, walking ahead.

Lucius pauses to give Ed a once over before he follows, checking the other man hasn’t been too shaken by the experience, while Ed blinks up at him in silent, open mouthed wonder. Then Ed’s eyes flick to the nurse’s retreating form and he swallows and hurries after her, Lucius keeping pace beside him.

Though Ed’s gaze stays down, focused on the nurse’s heels, Lucius notices his lips spread into a glowing smile as they walk, the arms folded about his chest relaxing, and any lingering reservations Lucius has about his threat melt away. 

 

* * *

 

It's a cell, Lucius reminds himself, as he stares through the grubby window at the cot Ed has just about managed to curl himself onto. He’s dressed in the Asylum's standard black and white stripes, which offer little in the way of warmth at the best of times, but there'd been no footwear to spare at short notice apparently, forcing him to contort into a ball so his long legs don't poke out of the threadbare blanket and expose his bare feet to the open air.

A cell. Not a room.

Ed himself had made the distinction on seeing Lucius’ disquieted expression when they arrived. ‘It's a prison cell not the Ritz,’ he’d noted. ‘It's not supposed to be comfortable.’

At least he’s safe now, and the city from him, that’s the main thing. And after an exhausting hour of physical examination and decontamination sleep hadn’t been hard for him to find, claiming him almost the instant his head touched the flat, grimy grey pillow.

Still, criminal or not there are certain amenities everyone should be entitled to and Lucius plans to discuss the terms of Wayne Enterprises’ funding here in depth when he and Bruce next cross paths. Something should be done about the quality and quantity of inmate clothing at least.

“There he is, the man of the hour!”

It’s not the volume that shocks Lucius, although the cry is loud. The inmates from the neighbouring cells have kept up a regular chorus of murmurs, mutterings and shouts since he got here so one more makes little difference. Instead it’s the Irish tang that makes Lucius wince, though he’s careful to turn and greet the recently reinstated Detective Bullock with a polite smile.

“Harvey,” Lucius nods as the other man bounds down the corridor towards him, James Gordon following behind at a more subdued pace. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” he adds with just a hint of reproach as his eyes find Jim. The Captain offers a light shrug by way of apology.

Lucius had requested Captain Gordon specifically because he knew the man could be discrete. If pressed and given the right encouragement anyway. Granted Gordon’s discretion has been lacking late, but Lucius trusted Jim to keep Ed’s situation quiet for tonight at least, so they might have some control over how it went to press tomorrow morning. As he watches Harvey’s beard twitch in glee Lucius resigns himself to conceding this plan. Knowing Bullock every bar this side of the river will be humming with the news before midnight.

“I was there when Jim-boy got the call,” Harvey beams, oblivious to Lucius’ discomfort. “Couldn’t miss this, could I? Is that him?”

He nods to the door of Ed’s cell, rushing forward without waiting for an answer and tugging his shabby hat back so he can better peer through the window.

“Ha!” he laughs. “Well I’ll be god damned. It really is! Jim come look at this!”

“The fingerprint analysis did confirm it was him,” Jim says, ignoring Harvey’s excited wave and stopping in front of Lucius instead.

“Yeah, but it’s no substitute for seeing it with your own eyeballs,” Harvey grins, before sneering through the glass. “Try dangling someone from a stairwell from in there, you lunatic!”

The jibe sits uneasy with Lucius, but he bites his tongue. Not only had Edward killed more than one of Harvey’s tribe, he had almost killed Harvey himself on those stairs and Lucius can’t imagine the horror of that experience – rocking helpless on that chair with the long drop down looming below. Given that, he can’t blame Harvey for hating the man. Can’t expect all of Ed’s victims to be forgiving.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Jim nods indulgently at Harvey over Lucius’ shoulder before focusing on Lucius himself. “What happened?”

“Yeah, man,” Harvey pipes up, slapping Lucius hard on the back of his shoulder as he moves to Jim’s side. Ed’s capture has him excited enough to forget the tension he and his former partner, now superior, have been struggling with since Harvey rejoined the Force it would seem. “How’d you do it?” Harvey leans in. “You got some secret vigilante racket going on?” He holds up a palm, schooling his expression into one of mock sobriety. “Because you understand that if that’s true, officially we gotta crack down on you. But, uh –” He glances round, lowering his voice as he continues. “Unofficially, maybe you wanna give us some contacts, see if we can come to some kind of arrangement?”

Jim rolls his eyes, but says nothing. He’s been reluctant to reprimand Harvey for anything since the man came back into the fold and Lucius is sure that one day soon Harvey is going to push this privilege to its limit. But not today.

“Sorry, no vigilantism,” Lucius answers. It’s not a lie. In this instance. “I just found him.”

“Found him?” Jim presses. “What do you mean, found him?”

“I came back to my apartment and he was there,” Lucius explains. “He wanted to turn himself in.”

Jim and Harvey draw back and share a look.

“Nah, that don’t seem right,” Harvey mutters, shaking his head.

“It does seem strange,” Jim agrees. “He definitely didn’t smuggle anything inside, give you something to carry maybe?”

“No,” Lucius tells him. “In any case, we were both searched and –” He catches himself a split second before saying ‘Ed,’ swapping in a more formal address. “Mr Nygma’s physical examination was… extremely thorough.” It’s no wonder the poor man had wanted a friendly face near by during the procedure. “He’s clean.”

“No, this doesn’t make sense. That smarmy bastard would never just give himself up.” Harvey looks to Jim, eyebrows lifting. “Think we should shake him down a bit, see what we can cough up?”

“An interrogation? Now?” Lucius blurts out. “But he’s sleeping.”

Harvey snorts.

“Oh well, heaven forbid we should deprive the _cop-killer_ of some R and R!”

Lucius bites his tongue again. More forcibly this time.

“You weren’t there when I found him,” he says, calming his frustration with formality. “He was… extremely distressed. Shaking. Crying.”

“Ah.” Harvey waves a hand, dismissive. “Anyone can fake some crocodile tears.”

“No,” Lucius insists. “This was more than that. He was scared. He wanted help.”

“ _Or_ ,” Harvey counters, pointing a finger at Lucius’ chest. “He was looking for someone to con and figured a softie like you would be an easy mark.”

Although it’s meant as a compliment to his moral integrity, Lucius takes insult at the insinuation, intended or not, that ‘good’ equates to ‘gullible.’

“I may not be as cynical as some people in this city,” Lucius says, folding his arms and the coat wrapped over them to his chest. “But I’m not a fool Harvey. I worked at Wayne Enterprises for over ten years, I know what duplicity looks like. Edward seemed genuine.”

“They all _seem genuine_ ,” Harvey argues. “That’s the point of a con!”

“ _Alright_ ,” Jim cuts in, raising his voice just enough to put an end to the disagreement before it spirals into argument and Lucius drops his eyes, contrite.

It’s Harvey’s job to consider all possible criminal activity and Ed has given no reason for the police to trust him. It was unfair to grow defensive over what was merely a logical line of reasoning. Seeing that nurse’s treatment of Ed has made Lucius oversensitive, imagining attacks when there are none. He’ll need to be more weary of that in the future.

“Look, it’s late,” Jim goes on. “We’re all tired. I don’t think there’s anything more we can achieve tonight. How about we get the Asylum to put a couple of guards outside Nygma’s door and Harvey, you and me can come back tomorrow for a proper interrogation?”

The no nonsense practicality of the plan dispels any lingering tension and Harvey soon nods in agreement.

“Okay. I’ll go speak to the staff about upping security.” He turns. Then stops. “Hey Lucius,” he adds, leaning back to point again. “You handled this smart. Good job.”

They share a smile, conflict avoided, then Harvey turns and makes his way to the exit at the end of the corridor.

“You should head home,” Jim says as Harvey leaves. “It’s been a long day. Go get some sleep, we can take it from here.”

There’s a small buzz of adrenaline still at work in Lucius that insists he should stay – fearful the others might still try to bother Ed with an interrogation once he’s gone. But the concern seems baseless in the face of Jim’s kindly expression and a weary ache is starting to build in Lucius’ arms and legs as the stress of day begins to take its toll. So he just says “thank you” and starts the trek down the corridor himself.

“He really just asked you to turn him in?” Jim calls after a couple of steps. Not accusatory, just confused. “No games? No riddles?”

Lucius shakes his head as he turns back.

“He said he needed help,” he says. “That’s all.”

Jim is up at the window now, though his expression on seeing his former colleague incarcerated is, unlike Harvey’s, more thoughtful than satisfied.

“And you believe him?” Jim asks, turning his head, and again there’s no accusation. Jim _wants_ his opinion. And without Harvey’s pervasive hostility hanging over them, Lucius thinks there is a good chance Jim may even respect it.

He answers slowly, but not out of doubt. Only because he wants to make his certainty clear.

“I do,” he says.

Jim holds his gaze a moment – a detective’s assessment.

“I hope you’re right,” he answers.

 

* * *

 

Despite full cooperation and confessions from Ed, it seems to take forever for him to be processed as an inmate, with Jim and Harvey called back to the Asylum for multiple interrogations over the next few days, usually with a lawyer in tow. Dent, Lucius thinks his name is. A sensible, fair-minded man by all accounts, who'd seemed kind enough when he'd shared small talk with Lucius one morning while waiting for Harvey to finish disciplining one of the cadets. Lucius had thought about asking after Ed, but was worried how the question might be construed, and besides there were issues of confidentially to consider – most likely the man couldn't tell him anything anyway. Still, Lucius had come away from the conversation, brief and inconsequential as it was, relieved to know that Ed’s case was in good hands and the sentence Dent had bargained proved him right – five years of compulsory psychiatric treatment, at least eight months of which had to be served under guard at Arkham, with subsequent treatment to be made available on parole, providing a medical assessment at such time was in favour.

So here Lucius is, finally, ten days later, stepping into one of the facility’s new isolated visiting rooms with its heavy duty, triple locked door, stainless steel table and double the usual amount of security – two guards outside and two orderlies in. With good behaviour, they say, Ed might be allowed in the more comfortable and less rigorously monitored communal visiting room, but for now he’s to be kept under close surveillance at all times.

Ed is sitting straight-backed in the chair facing the door, hands folded over the tabletop, trying to maintain his usual poise. Although this only serves to emphasise the incongruous aspects of his appearance forced on him by his situation. His hair is clean, but tousled from lack of combs and gel; his sleeves hang just that bit too loose from his wrists; while his black and white collar flaps untidily at his neck, unfastened by necessity due to a missing button.

He blinks up at Lucius, but before either of them can say anything one of the orderlies moves to scrape back the second chair and waves a hand at Lucius to sit. As he does she rattles off some gruff reminders of rules drummed into Lucius multiple times already.

“Hands on the table where we can see them.” Lucius clasps his across the tabletop obediently. “No touching. No leaving your chair. You have thirty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Lucius tells the woman, dryly, though it’s wasted breath as she is already walking back to her partner in matching off-white scrubs by the doorway.

Trying for some levity, Lucius greets Ed with a shrug and a smile, but Ed only stares.

“Hi,” he offers after a pause, voice lilting at the end so it’s almost a question.

“Hi,” Lucius answers.

A silence settles between them, with Ed eyeing him up and down so intensely Lucius starts to squirm beneath the gaze, wondering if a visit so soon wasn’t the best idea. Perhaps Ed doesn’t want company just get.

“What?” Lucius asks to end the quiet. “Have I got something on my suit?”

He looks down and makes a show of brushing at the white stars and planets embroidered on his tie and is relieved when the charade breaks some of the tension in Ed’s shoulders.

“What? No. I –” Ed mutters. “I just –” His face eases into a smile. “It’s just, here you are.” He waves a hand. “Actually… here.”

Ah. Simple disbelief is it?

“Here I am,” Lucius smiles back. “I told you I’d visit, didn’t I? Did you doubt me?”

“No,” Ed answers at once, defensive. Then he ducks his head. “I don’t know…” He scratches at a mark in the table with a fingernail. “Thank you. For coming. I –” When he looks up again his cheeks flush red. “I’m glad you’re here.”

And just like that all the time and effort and trouble of arranging the visit is worthwhile, Lucius flush himself with knowing he’s done the right thing. Though he only nods in response.

“So,” Lucius begins, now they’re ready to actually start the conversation. “How’s it all going?” 

Ed lifts a shoulder.

“Oh, well. I’ve got food, water, a roof over my head. Can’t complain, right?”

The answer is glib, almost too much so.

“But really,” Lucius insists. “You’re… you’re okay? They’re…” He pauses, aware of the orderlies over his shoulder, but presses on regardless. “They’re treating you alright?”

“No one’s recruited me to be a pawn in some secret society’s nefarious scheme, if that’s what you mean,” Ed replies. “I don’t even think they have a gas chamber downstairs anymore.”

“Ed. Be serious.”

“I’m fine.” This time Ed’s eyes soften, voice deepening. “It’s fine. They’re treating me fine.” Lucius holds his gaze a moment, searching for hidden meaning behind the words, but Ed’s expression is calm and unguarded. “I’ve, uh…” Ed goes on, unprompted, eyes dropping down, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. “I’ve got a meeting later with one of the doctors. To discuss treatment.”

“Okay,” Lucius nods. “That’s good.”

He tries to sound upbeat. Encouraging. Because it _is_ good. It’s what Ed came here for. Though it’s understandable he’d be nervous – treatment for illness is never a pleasure and they both know that Ed’s recovery will not be easy.

“Yes…” Ed mutters, sucking his bottom lip a moment before lifting his head with an overly bright grin. “But enough about me!” he exclaims, and if Ed’s anxiety wasn’t clear before, this unprecedented announcement confirms it. “Tell me about you. How have you been, Foxy?” His eyes flash, curious. Then press shut in a grimace. “I mean Lucius…” His gaze drops as he opens his eyes again, nodding to himself as he murmurs once more. “ _Lucius_.”

With everything else the man has to deal with, it seems churlish for Lucius to quibble over a nickname.

“You know,” he says, dipping his own head to catch Ed’s eye. “Foxy’s fine.”

The sunshine smile this earns him warms Lucius all over and is impossible not to meet in kind.

“Okay,” Ed nods. “So, what have you been up to?” he asks, adding after a slight pause and with evident joy. “Foxy?”

“Well, actually,” Lucius answers. “I was cleaning out my apartment –” He doesn’t mention this was because of the disarray Ed had left it in. No point dragging up something Ed already regrets and has apologised for. “– and I found something I thought might interest you.”

He twists round in his chair to get the attention of the orderlies and one of them – not the one who’d instructed him to sit but the other woman, blonde hair scraped back in a severe ponytail – gives him a bored nod and turns to open the door. After a quick, muttered conversation, one of the men outside passes the box Lucius had brought with him through the doorway and the woman takes it and brings it to the table, her partner closing the door firmly behind her.

“Thank you,” Lucius nods as she drops the box in front of him and turns away without a word. “I made some enquiries,” Lucius goes on to explain, turning back to Ed, whose curious eyes are already fixed on the box. “And it turns out the board they used to have here got broken a few weeks ago and is yet to be replaced. So I thought –” He starts to lift the lid, careful not to damage the old, faded cardboard. “– it might be nice for this old thing to get some use again.”

Pulling the lid away reveals the folded chess board inside, two compartments beside it holding the black and white pieces. It’s basic, but complete. And a lengthy examination on arrival had deemed it officially harmless.

Ed chuckles at the sight, reaching in to pull out the board and lay it flat on the table, while Lucius tucks the lid beneath the rest of the box.

“This is much older than you, Foxy,” Ed comments as he sifts through the pieces, wooden features worn down by frequent use. “Where did you get it?”

“My father,” Lucius answers. “Who got it from his father. Who got it from his father.”

“Passed down through three generations of Foxes,” Ed says, stopping to quirk an eyebrow. “My my. Although…” He runs a finger, gently, over a torn edge of cardboard. “Seems a little shabby for an heirloom.”

“Yes, well,” Lucius shrugs. “My older brothers got the shiny things. This was all that was left.”

He feels a momentary pang at the memory of his graduation, when his father had offered him the game, his smile apologetic. His mother had wrapped it in sparkling paper with a bow, trying to spruce it up, but they all knew that in monetary terms it had no value. It was old but no antique, the colours faded, with several pieces snapped and glued back together over the years. But its worth was far greater than its value – because it represented his parents’ pride and their love and their desire to gift him something in memory of his heritage and Lucius had cried when he opened it.

There were times when his childhood had been hard, but he is grateful every day for his family. Where would he be, he wonders, without their love and support?

The other side of this table, perhaps.

“It’s not much,” he admits. “But I like it. It’s got history.”

“It certainly has that,” Ed grins, holding up a white pawn with a series of marks down its side made, unmistakably, by a small set of teeth.

“Ah.” Lucius swallows a hum of laughter. “Yes. Three year old me liked to employ the lesser known tactic of defeating his opponents by _eating_ their pieces.”

“Did you now?” Ed twists the pawn in his hand, rubbing a thumb over the rounded top. “I assume you’ve grown out of the predilection.” His smile flicks to one side as he bends his head to further examine the piece, eyes daring up to gaze at Lucius over the rims of his glasses. “And won’t be attempting to eat… any of _my_ pieces?”

The dark look and silky tone make for an obvious double entendre and Lucius tries not to blush as the memory of Ed enthusiastically ‘eating’ a piece of him flashes across his mind. The thought of one day repaying the favour is not unpleasant. But that’s something neither of them are ready to be contemplating right now. Ed has lord knows how many psychological issues to deal with, so attempting to pursue a… _deeper_ relationship, of any kind, with _anyone_ , can only lead to emotional complications. Indeed, the fact they have already been physically intimate remains a source of conflict for Lucius, with him periodically turning the night over and over in his mind, debating if it had helped or simply added to Ed’s emotional turmoil. 

And yet, Ed looks so calm as he makes the joke. The most at ease he’s been since Lucius arrived. Lucius doesn’t want to jeopardise that, doesn’t want to lose the warmth that’s grown between them. God knows Ed is going to need _someone_ to help him through what’s coming.

A little light-hearted, meaningless flirtation can’t hurt, surely?

“I’ll do my best to refrain,” he answers. Deadpan. It’s the kind of teasing that falls flat with most people, but if anyone will understand not to take him literally Lucius is certain it will be Ed and, sure enough, the other man beams back at him in response, teeth flashing under the florescent glare of the single lamp mounted in the ceiling.

The joy in Ed remains as he drops the white pawn back in the box and begins setting up the black pieces on his side of the board, anxieties forgotten, and once Lucius has finished arranging his side his own uncertainties have also faded.

They play for the remainder of their time, Lucius far more attentive to the narrowed eyed focus and sudden flashes of excitement in Ed as he plots out his moves than to the game itself.

Until before Lucius knows it one of the orderlies – the short haired one – is at his shoulder, telling them –

“That’s thirty minutes. You’re done.”

“Hmmm?” Lucius mutters, blinking away from the board where his king has been slowly backed into the left hand corner. “Oh.” He glances at Ed, who shrugs. “Well, I think we both know where this is headed. Bravo.” With a congratulatory smile Lucius topples his king, leaving it to roll helpless against the attacking force. Ed quirks his lips up in satisfaction. “See you again next week?” Lucius adds as he steps to his feet.

“I’d like that,” Ed nods.

“I’ll leave the board then,” Lucius nods in return. “Until next time.”

But as he reaches the door Ed calls after him.

“Foxy.”

Much to the chagrin of the orderlies Lucius pauses in the open doorway to turn back. 

“Next time,” Ed tells him, hands clasping behind the fallen king. “Don’t let me win.”

There’s a denial on the tip of his tongue, mouth opening to give voice to it, but the knowing lift of Ed’s eyebrows makes Lucius swallow it back and purse his lips, sheepish, instead.

“I appreciate you want to lift my spirits,” Ed goes on. “It was a lovely thought. But there’s no triumph without adversity.”

“You’re right,” Lucius concedes. “Next time I’ll play to win.”

Ed smiles.

“Next time, you’ll try.”

 

* * *

  

And next time he does. And the time after. A couple of times he even succeeds.

It’s strangely peaceful, sharing a few games each visit. Enough that by the fourth week he’s actually eager to see those imposing gates, the Asylum no longer the dark and dismal place its architecture implies but a welcome sanctuary from the increasingly bizarre and depressing happenings in the city. As an asylum should be.

Perhaps, Lucius thinks, he’s been unfairly critical of the place and without Strange’s maniacal influence it’s finally undergoing the much needed reform that was promised when it first reopened.

“ _There_ you are!” Ed snaps from his habitual place on the far side of the table as the orderlies let Lucius through the door. “Finally!”

The ponytailed orderly all but crashes into Lucius when he stops still halfway in, but though she tuts at him Lucius doesn’t stop to apologise because something is so clearly _wrong_.

After Lucius had agreed to leave the chess board that first week Ed had taken to having it brought to the visiting room prior to Lucius’ arrival, making sure the pieces were neatly set in their rightful place, ready and waiting for Lucius when he sat down. But today barely half the board is ready – all the white pieces lie untouched in the box with only a smattering of black ones littering the chequered card, not yet upright let alone arranged as they should be.

Meanwhile Ed himself looks as scattered as the game. His unwashed hair is sticking up in tuffs at the sides, as though he’s been pulling it, his sleeves are rolled up over his elbows and his collar, buttons complete this time, hangs open and to the side, like its been yanked down hard more than once. 

“Am I… late?” Lucius asks, hesitantly.

“By three minutes and forty eight – forty nine seconds,” Ed answers. “But never mind, you’re here now. Sit sit!”

He waves both hands at the empty chair and Lucius drops, cautiously, into it, clasping his hands across the tabletop.

“Ed, is everything alright?”

“Fine!” Ed exclaims and now he’s closer Lucius can see how deeply red Ed’s face is, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Great. Better than fine. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“O- _kay_ ,” Lucius answers, previous calm displaced by a growing sense of dread. If Ed is already this highly strung there’s a good chance he’s about snap and the thought pulls Lucius up in his chair, back straight and stiff, fingers pressing tight against each other. Braced for impact.

Even the way Ed stops to suck in a breath, chest puffing with it, chin lifting, does nothing to dispel the aura of manic energy radiating from him. In fact if anything it makes it _worse_ , serving to emphasise his new, ferocious sense of purpose.

“I feel… _good_ , Foxy,” he states, with a grin that stretches wide but seems oddly static. “ _Really_ good.”

There’s a pause that lasts just that bit too long and Lucius realises Ed is waiting on a response, like an actor seeking applause.

“Well that’s… good,” Lucius offers, awkwardly, into the quiet, half expecting Ed to berate him for his lacklustre audience participation.

But instead Ed nods and points, like Lucius has just confirmed the answer to an ongoing argument.

“Yes! _Exactly_ ,” he says. “It _is_.” He lets out a sigh as he drops his hand, smile growing warmer. “I’m glad you agree. Because I’ve been thinking.” Then suddenly he’s leaning in, swiping the chess pieces aside so he can fold his arms across the board and bend over. It’s as Lucius bends forward as well that he notices Ed’s glasses aren’t fixed properly on his nose, instead they’re slipped a little way down so at this angle his eyes appear bisected by the rims. “Since I’ve been doing so well. I really don’t need to be here anymore.”

“Here?” Lucius repeats, hoping he’s misunderstanding. “Here in isolation?”

“What? No.” Ed’s voice turns waspish and Lucius flashes back to them on that staircase, Ed growing more flustered and out of reach with every ‘wrong’ answer he gave. “No! I mean _here_ here! In the Asylum.”

Which is exactly what Lucius was afraid he meant.

He wonders, fleetingly, if something untoward is going on and this is meant as a coded message asking for help. But with Bruce’s assistance Lucius has had the facility thoroughly inspected since Ed was admitted and while it’s a little rough around the edges here and there, the treatment was deemed acceptable. Whatever has Ed worked up, for once it’s not the fault of the Asylum.

“It’s… a little early to be making that call isn’t it?” he tries but Ed dismisses the suggestion with a roll of his eyes.

“If you’re one of the quacks they call doctors in this place, yes,” he scoffs. “But I know better. I know my own mind, Foxy.” He taps a finger several times to the side of his head for emphasis. “I’m good to go.”

Lucius takes a breath and tries to keep his voice slow and quiet as he answers.

“Okay. You say that now. But Ed, with all due respect, it’s because you _didn’t_ know your own mind that you came here in the first place, remember?”

“Yes, yes!” Ed wafts a hand in front of his face. “But that was _then_. I’m better now. All cured.” He pulls back with a sigh, frowning in disappointment. “Try and keep up, Foxy, or we’ll never get anywhere. And I need your help.”

That sounds ominous.

“Oh?” Lucius asks, sitting back as well.

“Yes. Because the staff here are too _dim-witted_ –” He flashes a quick sneer towards the door and Lucius cringes at the blatant antagonism of the watching orderlies. “– to understand me.” As his gaze drops back to Lucius he must realise how low his glasses have fallen because he forces them back up his nose with an ill-formed push, fingertips smearing the glass. “So I need you to tell them to let me out.”

At which point Ed falls silent, save a few harsh breaths through his nose, and stares at Lucius expectantly.

“Ed…” Lucius starts. The request is so ludicrous it’s a struggle to know how to respond. “You know that’s not how this works. You… You said yourself when we first got here, you’re not simply a patient, you’re a prisoner. There are rules. Obligations. And I – I don’t have the authority to sanction your release.”

“Yes, but –” Ed’s eyes glitter with familiar mania above his grin. “But you’ve got _connections_ , right? Ways you can circumvent those pesky rules?”

He means Bruce of course. Lucius knew playing the high-profile friendship card had been a mistake, but he’d never considered the psychological effects it might have on Ed. Idiot. He knew the man harboured several unhealthy misconceptions about him, what was he thinking blustering about like some movie star hero? He’d played exactly into Ed’s delusions. No wonder Ed has developed this unreal idea of Lucius as some secret ‘get out of jail free’ card to be activated as and when.

“Ed I –”

Lucius thinks about explaining how his friendship with Bruce isn’t like that, how friendship in general isn’t some unlimited resource to be mined at your convenience, and even if it was Bruce doesn’t have the necessary power to coerce the system anyway. But he can tell it’s all going to sound like white noise to Ed in his current state. Ed has narrowed his focus to a single, overpowering belief, utterly convincing himself of its truth. Just as he had that night when he’d concluded himself irrefutably The Riddler. Only this time his conclusion is that he needs to get out of Arkham and Lucius can make it happen. Any suggestion to the contrary will doubtless be dismissed as waste of time. Better to save them both the hassle.

“No,” Lucius says. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Ed’s grin drops in a flash.

“Can’t or won’t?” he asks, now icy cold.

“Honestly?” Lucius answers, refusing to be cowed. “Both.”

Ed falls back against his chair with a gasp, so melodramatic it’s practically cartoon. Under different circumstances Lucius might have laughed.

“Wow,” Ed breathes, eyes scanning Lucius’ face, top lip curling. “Wow… I thought you were different, Foxy. I really did. I actually thought you cared.”

It’s a low blow. A weak attempt at emotional manipulation by anyone’s standards but especially poor for someone of Edward Nygma’s intellect. So all Lucius does is sigh.

“I _do_ –”

“You know,” Ed shrugs, averting his eyes with a shake of his head and muttering the rest under his breath. “Oswald got me out of here without me even having to ask. And he wasn’t even Mayor at the time…”

This comes closer to hitting its mark, making Lucius purse his lips against the sting.

“Well I’m not Penguin,” he says.

“No.” Ed’s eyes snap back. “That much is evident.”

It’s almost a relief – having the constant sense of being measured against the man, and found wanting, finally out in the open between them. But it shakes something else loose as well – a resentment Lucius wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. As though by acknowledging the unspoken truth Ed has given him license to finally embrace the feeling. 

“And how well, exactly, did your premature freedom work out for you?” Lucius asks, tone similarly frosty. Ed licks his lips as he readies his reply but Lucius doesn’t give him the chance. “Cobblepot did you no favours when he got you out. If he truly cared about you he would have wanted to help you get better, not pretend you weren’t sick at all, and I don’t plan on making the same mistake. You weren’t ready to leave here then and you’re not ready now.”

With lips parting to bare his teeth, Ed lets out a short, aggressive ‘huh!’

“So you want me to rot in here for the rest of my days is what you’re saying,” he growls.

“No. That’s the opposite of what I’m saying,” Lucius responds, hands slipping apart to grip the edge of the table as an outlet for his own growing aggravation. “Ed, listen to me –”

“No!” Ed yells, voice shrill, hands balling into fists over the tabletop. “Listening to you is what put me here in the first place! You told me I should get help. And now I have it’s, what, not good enough for you?!”

This is escalating too far and too fast, Lucius needs to pull them back.

“Ed, please. Calm down.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ed spits, throwing his hand out in a point just shy of Lucius’ nose, arm shaking as he continues. “I see your game. Trying to wear me down into nothing! Did you honestly think a few chess matches would pacify me?” He lunges at the box with its compartments full of white pieces and the few remaining black. “Well you were _wrong!_ ”

Snarling, Ed tips the box up and over the edge of the table, pieces scattering over the tiled floor underneath in a series of clatters, followed by the thump of the cardboard as it joins them a split second later. But there’s no time to fret over the fate of the game because as the pieces fall Ed is rising, hands slamming down on the tabletop with enough force to make the few pawns still there roll about.

“I am not so easily defeated!” Ed shouts down at him and it’s been so long since Lucius last found himself threatened by the other man that the shock of it now leaves him speechless.

Fortunately, the staff are not so debilitated and Lucius is more than anything _relieved_ to hear the calm, professional interjection from the orderly behind him.

“Alright Nygma, that’s enough.”

“And _you!_ ” Ed snaps, dismissing Lucius in order to turn his rage on the speaker and her partner. “You think I don’t hear you both? Whispering about me. Mocking me behind my back. Well when I get out of here you better watch yours.”

“Nygma.” A different voice. The other orderly. Lucius would turn, but he’s afraid Ed might interpret the move as a sleight considering the paranoid spin his fury has taken. “If you don’t settle down we’re gonna have to take you back to your cell.”

“I’d like to see you try you pair of impudent jackanapes!”

“Well,” says the first orderly again, stepping into view at Lucius’ right and moving briskly round the table. “You asked for it.”

In one swift, practiced motion the short-haired woman twists one of Ed’s hands behind his back, grips him by the neck and slams him down onto the table.

The force makes Lucius jump out of his chair in alarm.

“Wait. Don’t –” he calls, but Ed shouts over him.

“Let go of me! How dare you! You imbecilic –”

“Come on, Nygma, don’t make this worse,” the orderly sighs and Lucius is surprised how genuine she sounds, face pinched in what looks like regret as much as effort as she fights against Ed’s squirming.

Her hold is firm, but as the shock of the intervention starts to wane Lucius can see is not hurting Ed, the ease in which he continues to struggle proves that. She’s just keeping his anger in check. What’s more – her calm suggests this is something routine, a manoeuvre she’s performed countless times on any number of inmates over the years.

“You need to leave now,” a soft voice instructs at Lucius’ shoulder and he turns to find the ponytailed orderly standing beside him.

“But…” Lucius turns back to Ed, conflicted.

He knows what damage Ed can do when he’s not in his right mind – the marks on his apartment walls and pieces of crockery he’s still finding in cracks and corners are a testament to that. Perhaps physical restraint _is_ the best way to help him in such times. But it feels cruel to just leave the man like this.

In the end it’s Ed himself who frees Lucius of his uncertainty.

“Go on, go!” he shouts, twisting his head as much as the woman’s hold will allow so he’s snarling up at Lucius, cheek squashed against the table. “If you can’t help me then what good are you? Get out! And don’t bother coming back!”

The brutality of the command makes Lucius take a step back, chest constricting at what seems like real hatred in Ed’s eyes. No, there is clearly nothing he can do for the other man now.

“Come on,” the blonde orderly says, touching him lightly at the elbow, and this time Lucius turns round to face her, putting Ed’s fury behind him. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure we collect all your chess pieces,” the woman goes on to tell him as she leads him through the door.

But the board game is the least of Lucius’ worries in that moment and he turns to tell the orderly not to concern herself with it, to make Ed the priority. His parents, he thinks, would understand. But on turning he finds the door closed again, the orderly already back inside.

The uniformed guards on this side of the door show not a hint of emotion at the disturbance taking place inside, holding silent and stoic through the muffled curses and shouts seeping through, and Lucius is grateful for their quiet disinterest as he takes a moment to compose himself.

He didn’t mean it, he tells himself. It’s just Ed’s sickness overwhelming him. He just needs some time to cool off.

Nevertheless, Lucius can’t shake the look in Ed’s eyes when he’d told him to leave. So full of disdain. Like all the trust and affection built up between them counted for nothing. Gone in an instant, as if it never were.

When Lucius finally does start making his way through the building’s labyrinthine corridors it’s with Ed’s last words ringing in his ears.

 

* * *

  

The wait at Reception the following week seems to last forever and Lucius makes and unmakes a decision to leave several times before a familiar blonde haired figure steps through the entry gate.

“I knew you’d come back,” she smiles at him. “Nina didn’t think you would, but I told her – a guy like you doesn’t scare easy.”

“I’m sorry?” Lucius asks, in the process of removing his coat – for the fifth or sixth time – and distracted by a fresh bout of nerves that leaves him struggling to follow the observation.

“Nina’s my partner,” the orderly explains. “The other girl inside the door? We made a bet over whether you’d come back this week. You just made me an easy fifty.”

“Oh. Well. I’m happy to be of assistance,” Lucius tells her, folding the coat over his arm for the final time, the decision to stay made for him by the orderly’s arrival. “Shall we go?”

He nods to the door and the woman’s face falls.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I should have –” She shakes her head. “Here I am talking about how great it is for me that you came by, when the truth is you’ve wasted your time. Nygma isn’t seeing anyone today.”

That’s – unexpected.

“Oh.” Lucius stares at her dumbly for a few seconds, then realises how foolish he must look and musters up the brain power to offer a sensible reply. “Is it – is he not allowed? After what happened?”

“No, no,” the woman assures him. “He’s not in solitary or anything like that. He just asked not to see anyone this week.”

“I see,” Lucius answers, rubbing his thumb idly under a fold in his coat. Which he supposes he’ll have to put back on now. _Again_.

Despite Ed’s parting words to him, Lucius had been hoping that the other man’s antagonism would have faded over the last few days. Learning it hasn’t is more of a blow than he’d been prepared for.

“We have your chess board though, if you want it,” the orderly offers, consolatory. “We collected all the pieces. Nothing broken.”

It’s a relief to know the game is still intact, but taking it away feels shameful. Like admitting defeat.

“No, I’ll… I’ll leave it for the moment,” Lucius answers. “Thank you. For letting me know.”

The orderly – Lucius notes with a shock that it’s been over a month and he doesn’t even know her name – gives him a flat, apologetic smile and nod and turns back to the gate. 

“Wait,” Lucius calls as the guard in the booth – not the kid who’d been on duty when Lucius and Ed checked in but someone new, older and bearded – buzzes the door open. The orderly turns back, one hand on the metal fencing, and raises an eyebrow. “Do you – can I – do you mind if I ask, how is he?” Lucius stutters. “It’s just that, last week he was very… upset. And I wondered if he was still – but you might not know, of course. I don’t know if you have any contact with him beyond visiting hours so – but um –”

Thankfully the orderly takes pity on him before his shambles of an enquiry can continue.

“He’s not all riled up anymore, if that’s what you mean,” she says, letting go of the door and stepping back to him. “Actually he calmed down real quick after you left,” she goes on. “Patients get in a rage like that it can last for _days_. And I get it. Stuck in here, even the sanest person would go a little stir crazy after a while. You work here a year or so you learn to just let them get it out of their system. Almost everyone has a week or two like that. Doctors say it can even be a good thing, purging yourself of negative emotions. Or learning to accept them. Or something, I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Anyway, Nygma had a few impressive tantrums when he was here last time some of the other guys tell me. I wasn’t assigned to him back then so I wouldn’t know. But I guess I was expecting him to go off the rails at some point.” The matter of fact way she talks about patients, and Ed in particular, going ‘off the rails’ is somehow both comforting and alarming and Lucius can’t tell if he wishes he’d had forewarning of this kind of inmate behaviour or not. On the one hand, advanced warning would have prepared him better and knowing such behaviour was common would have made the experience less affecting. But on the other hand, the orderly’s casual tone suggests she’s grown overly accustom to her charges’ conduct, to the point where individual circumstance no longer factors, and Lucius doesn’t want to be dismissive of Ed’s feelings. “But you know,” the orderly continues, pursing her lips thought. “I really did think he’d last longer. Like, at least another day. But he went quiet after just a few hours. Been subdued ever since.”

“Subdued?” Lucius repeats and there must have been a hint of reproach in his tone because the orderly hurries to clarify.

“Not drugged or restrained or anything.” She shakes her head, holding up a palm. “We don’t do that here. Not anymore. Well… not unless it’s absolutely necessary. Point is, what I meant was, he’s just been… _sad_.” She lifts a shoulder. “Barely talking to anyone. Not meeting your eye. Actually if you ask me, I think he’s kinda _embarrassed_ , you know?”

This paints a different picture to the one of festering resentment Lucius had assumed Ed’s refusal of visitors implied.

Perhaps all is not lost between them.

“Right, anyways,” the orderly starts again when Lucius fails to reply. “Since there’s no visit I got other duties, so…”

“Yes, of course,” Lucius mutters. “Although,” he adds before she turns to leave, an idea slowly taking shape. “The visiting room – is it occupied by someone else now, since Ed declined it?”

“No. Visiting slots stay open whether patients use them or not. It’ll be free for the next half hour. Or, well, twenty-five minutes now.”

“Okay,” Lucius nods. “Could you, perhaps, take me through and bring the chess board? And tell Ed I’ll wait? In case he changes his mind.”

“Uh. Yeah, sure. If you like.” The orderly’s brow furrows, but the look is not unkind. “Follow me.”

She steps back to the gate, nodding for the man in the booth to open it again, and Lucius follows after her.

Ten minutes and a near complete solo chess match later Lucius is starting to doubt the effectiveness of his gambit. Perhaps the orderly – Diedre, he’d discovered – had misread Ed’s state of mind. Lord knows Edward Nygma is not the easiest man to pin down. But just as Lucius deprives himself of his black bishop, he hears the door open behind him, followed by the sound of shuffling feet.

Then silence.

He waits a moment, but hears nothing further, and so very deliberately places his captured bishop to the side of the board and continues the game. Giving Ed space to decide for himself how to proceed.

It takes two more moves, but eventually –

“Knight to Queen’s Bishop five. Checkmate in three.”

Lucius assesses the board. Then nods.

“So it is,” he notes, still without turning. “Want to join me for the next one?” he asks as he resets the pieces. “Or would you prefer to watch me play with myself?”

When Ed creeps round to the other side of the table Lucius is relieved to find him tidy again – collar all buttoned up, hair patted down, sleeves still over wide and long but hanging where they should be at his wrists.

A smirk flickers across Ed’s face as their eyes meet in acknowledgement of the entendre, but it doesn’t stay. Instead Ed drops his eyes to the board and keeps them there, quietly helping to finish the set up.

Once they’re done Ed twists the board so the black pieces fall on his side, plants his elbows on the table and clasps his hands prayer-like beneath his chin. Waiting for Lucius to begin.

The switch confirms something Lucius has only suspected before, but now there is no denying it – Ed always plays as black. He wonders if it’s some kind of subtle, perhaps even unconscious, commentary on how Ed perceives himself.

It feels impolite to ask though, and in any case Lucius thinks it’s important to let Ed lead the conversation this week, so he makes his first move in silence. Ed does the same and they continue in that vein for several minutes.

Then Ed blindsides him by taking Lucius’ queen, rendering his whole game plan inoperable, and Lucius breaks the quiet with a curse.

“ _Damn!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Ed tells him, voice low.

“No, don’t be,” Lucius mutters, eyes scanning the remaining pieces on the board as he tries to adapt to the new state of play. “It was a good move. I should have seen it.”

“I don’t mean about the chess,” Ed replies, voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

The change in tone has Lucius dismiss his calculations and lift his head, because while the words may be soft they’re heavy too. It seems Ed is finally ready to address what happened last week.

Ed still has Lucius’ queen in hand and he twists it around in his fingers, other hand lightly curling and uncurling beside the board. His expression is clouded, lips folding together.

“You don’t?” Lucius prompts.

“I um…” Ed swallows, eyes fixed on the queen, which he taps against the table a couple of times. An outlet for some inner emotion Lucius assumes – one that’s growing stronger by the second if this restlessness is anything to go by. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“Oh?” Lucius means to let Ed continue as he will, he does. But Ed looks so miserable at the thought of him not returning and the self-pity touches a nerve. Lucius has spent the better part of the last seven days fretting over whether stopping his visits might be in Ed’s best interest based on active advice from _Ed himself_. That Ed should now want sympathy for anticipating such an outcome hardly seems fair. So he adds – “What gave you that idea? Wait. Was it perhaps the way you screamed at me not to?” 

Ed lets go of the queen and turns his head, hands twisting together.

“I didn’t –” he starts, stopping to clear his throat. “They’ve got me on a lot of different drugs. Sometimes they make me…” Pressing his eyes shut he gives several small, quick shakes of his head. “But that’s just excuses. What I said I –” His eyes shine as they blink back to Lucius. “I didn’t mean it.”

So much of Lucius wants to believe him. To drop this and move on. But if there’s any chance Ed is dissembling, even without meaning to, Lucius can’t let it slide. Better a painful truth now to clean the wound than a pretty lie that casts all future dealings between them into festering doubt. So Lucius presses –

“Are you sure?”

“Of course!” Ed hurries to answer. “I accused you of conspiring against me when, my god, you’re probably the only person left in the city who actually gives a damn.”

“Okay,” Lucius nods. “But what about everything else you told me? How you don’t belong here, that you’re cured. Did you mean that?”

There’s silence for several, notable seconds, then Ed drops his head, murmuring his reply to the table.

“I – At the time I did.”

“And now?”

Instead of responding Ed lifts a hand to his face so he can chew on a fingernail.

“It’s not a trick question, Ed,” Lucius adds, softer. “Just tell me the truth. Whatever it is, I’ll listen.”

A sharp breath escapes Ed in response to this, lips curling behind his fingers with a familiar Cheshire Cat slyness, as if he’s laughing at some private joke. Except, unlike the fabled feline’s, this grin vanishes at once and is replaced with a far more sombre, harrowed expression, Ed’s eyes growing dull as he stares into the distance.

“Sometimes I still... I still think that way, yes...” he mutters around his nail. “But I don't...” He drops his hand and interlocks his fingers over the table. “I need to be here. I do.” He nods a couple of times before raising his eyes back to Lucius. “I know that,” he goes on and Lucius is pleased to find Ed sincere on this point. If Ed had reverted back to not recognising his need for professional help then Lucius doesn’t know how either of them would have been able to move forward. “I know it,” Ed repeats. “But...” He licks his lips, eyes flicking upwards as he searches for the right words. “I can't always… _see it_ ,” he settles on, only to bare his teeth after, dissatisfied. “It's like, I know the answer to the equation,” he tries again. “But I can't figure out how to get there. I - I know the picture I'm supposed to make, but I can't find all the pieces and - and when I try to put together the ones I've got they get all bent and broken until they look like they belong to a different picture entirely and…” He tips his head back with a sigh. “And this really does sound crazy, doesn't it?”

“No,” Lucius answers. Because piecemeal as Ed’s description is, it _resonates_. “No not at all. Actually, I get it.” Ed drops his gaze back to Lucius and stares. “Your mind's working so fast it's like it gets ahead of you,” Lucius explains, using his own experience to try and make sense of Ed’s struggle. “You're thinking up solutions to problems without even knowing how. But it makes perfect sense as you're thinking it, the conclusions _feel_ right.” Caught up in what has become part analysis, part confession, Lucius clasps his own hands before him and leans forward. “But when you come to explain why, it's not so easy. Because you're working backwards then, trying to retrace steps that aren’t there because your intuitive leaps jumped clean over them. And the longer you spend trying to piece it all together the more that clarity starts to fade and…” Lucius pauses, hit by a flood of different memories – working at this and that thesis at university or overseeing different projects at Wayne Enterprises, weighed down by the pressure of encroaching deadlines as he fails to make sense of his results. “Yes, it's frustrating,” he nods. “You're forced to consider that you might have been mistaken, but once you do it's not simply that one conclusion that doing so casts into doubt, it's everything. Every time you've ever been sure about _anything_.” He can feel the skin across his brow grow tight at the thought of it. “Because if one certainty can be wrong then logically any of them can be. And once you get trapped in that spiral of self doubt it can be overwhelming, I know. You start reaching for anything, any answer, however flawed, that might bring that surety back to you.”

Aware this speech has grown longer than intended a rush of self-consciousness creeps up on Lucius as he focuses back to Ed and only increases when he finds the other man still staring at him, open mouthed. It’s enough to create a kernel of that very doubt he was describing – perhaps he has misunderstood, perhaps his personal insights are irrelevant to Ed and his ramblings have only compounded the other man’s confusion.

But then Ed takes a breath and gasps out –

“Yes!” His voice is high and a little shaky. “Yes, that’s _exactly –!_ ” he goes on, cutting himself off to suck in another, astonished gulp of air. “No one’s ever –” But he can’t seem to complete the thought, stopping instead to look Lucius up and down. “Yes,” he finishes, nodding, relaxing back in his chair with an air of stunned accomplishment, as though between them they’ve just completed a task deemed impossible.

It’s relief as much as affinity that puts the smile on Lucius’ face. The clarity of being right blended with the rare discovery of a like mind makes for a heady combination.

But Ed’s smile back grows weak, his face twisting away as he adds –

“You probably… handle it better than me…”

This is a fact, not self-depreciation, but Lucius has the urge to bolster Ed’s spirits on the matter regardless. In his own fits of intellectual anxiety he might never have killed anyone, Lucius considers quipping, but it’s been a close call sometimes. He even opens his mouth to deliver the line, before common sense kicks in and he realises how inappropriate, not to mention extremely disrespectful to Ed’s victims, it would be to try and downplay the other man’s violence by comparing it to his own idle thoughts of the same. Ed is _supposed_ to feel shame and remorse for his crimes, for god’s sake, Lucius shouldn’t be trying to prevent that.

“I want to tell you that…” Ed carries on over Lucius’ silence. “That what happened last week won’t happen again, but…” He shakes his head and sucks his bottom lip, eyes shining from the effort of holding back some fresh tide of emotion. “I don’t – I don’t think I can. I can’t –” His eyes press shut. “I can’t always control myself, when I get overwhelmed like that.” When he blinks up to Lucius this time his eyes are sad but dry. “Foxy, you have done so much for me already. More than could be reasonably expected from anyone. If… If you don’t want to visit anymore, I’ll understand.”

“Hey, no,” Lucius answers. Half an hour earlier the argument might have swayed him, but they’ve come so far since, with Ed opening up and apologising. Stopping now isn’t even worth considering. Although Lucius appreciates Ed’s offer of a guilt free abandonment. “You don’t get rid of me that easy,” he insists. “I made you a promise. And I keep my word.”

“But –”

“Listen.” Lucius lifts a hand to stem further protest. “We both knew coming into this that it wouldn’t be easy. The things you’ve been through, the things you’ve done – no one gets over that in a few weeks. It’s… It’s a process. Right?” Ed sucks in his cheeks, like the very concept tastes sour, but nods in agreement. “And that means all of this is going to be up and down for a _while_. It’s going to get better, you’re going to get better. But you might feel worse sometimes along the way, that’s just how these things work.” He’s speaking on instinct more than with any authority on psychiatric care, but considering what Diedre had told him about all patients suffering violent outbursts during their time it seems a logical assumption. “So last week… last week was a bad day,” he continues, knowing how helpful a label can be when it comes to exerting control over a troublesome or painful experience. “It happens.” He shrugs. “If we gave up after every bad day, hell, we’d all be lunatics by now.”

A slow, shaky smile creeps over Ed’s face.

“True enough,” he nods, voice thick. So much he has to stop and swallow before continuing. “Thank you,” he adds, reaching a hand down the side of the chess board, fingers stretching out across the table beyond the far cardboard corner.

The gesture is so small Lucius thinks nothing of answering it, reaching back to provide tangible evidence of his support. But a discrete cough behind him stays his hand.

No touching. He’d forgotten.

Ed starts at the sound, curling his fingers into his palm.

“It’s, um. It’s your move,” he says, lifting his hand away to scratch at the back of his neck.

Lucius offers a quick smile by way of apology before following Ed’s lead and turning his attention to the game. Without their queen his pieces are in a particularly vulnerable state but Lucius is confident he can muster up enough of a defence to ensure his defeat is dignified at least. It might not be the physical comfort the other man had hoped for, but perhaps for Edward Nygma it will be a favourable substitute.

 

* * *

  

“What’s this then?” Lucius asks, mockingly stern, when he next steps inside the visiting room to find Ed three moves into a game of his own. “Decided to do without me this time?”

Ed stops in the middle of placing a pawn, blinking up at Lucius with wide, startled ‘hand in the cookie jar’ eyes.

“No! I wasn’t – of course not,” he stammers as Lucius joins him at the table, the two orderlies filing into place at the door behind him.

“Ed, relax, I’m joking,” Lucius smiles and Ed sighs himself into one of his own.

“I knew that. Obviously,” Ed mutters, quickly resetting the few pieces he’d moved back to their starting points. “And I wasn’t trying to exclude you. I thought you might be late or not coming this week, that’s all. So I decided to entertain myself in the meantime.”

“Why would you think that?” Lucius frowns. “We talked about this, remember? I’m not going to stop visiting just because –”

“No, no, I know,” Ed nods. He certainly doesn’t _appear_ anxious or upset in any way that might suggest the thought of Lucius not returning has been preying on him. On the contrary, he seems upbeat but calm, uniform and hair clean and tidy. “It wasn’t about that. I just thought you might have plans this evening. It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here now because –”

He clasps and unclasps his hands at his chest for a moment, grin flicking up.

“I have something for you,” he confesses, holding still now the build up to this announcement is over.

“You do?”

“Um-hmm,” Ed hums, reaching for the box beside the chess board. Unlike previous visits the box is covered by its lid this time, presumably to conceal whatever Ed is referring to. “They have this arts and crafts workshop in the Rec Room the doctors keep telling me to get involved in,” Ed explains as he draws the box to his chest. “It’s like, optional therapy. Something about combating negative thinking by focusing the mind on simple tasks.”

He circles a hand above the box, hurrying through the explanation since it’s clearly meant as a precursor to his Big Reveal, but Lucius finds his curiosity piqued by the idea of art as therapy. It’s also the first time Ed has mentioned anything specific about his treatment, and doctor-patient confidentiality naturally prevents Lucius from learning details from the Arkham medical professionals, which makes him eager to have Ed elaborate. He would never push Ed into talking if he doesn’t want to, which is why he’s never brought the matter up himself, but he very much wants to know if there’s any part of Ed’s therapy that is of particular help. Anything he could also be involved in. Arts and crafts would be easy to support – Lucius would be more than happy to donate some materials to the Asylum if Ed felt it would be useful.

With that in mind, Lucius interrupts Ed’s spiel with a quick –

“Does it work?”

Ed blinks and stops, mouth open, brow furrowed.

“The arts and crafts I mean,” Lucius clarifies.

“Um…” Ed answers, staring into the distance as he contemplates. “I guess…” he mutters, focusing back to Lucius. “I don’t really have enough data to confirm the hypothesis one way or the other.”

Logical as ever.

“Fair enough.”

“Anyway,” Ed goes on, placing his hands either side of the tattered cardboard and easing open the box’s lid just enough to reach inside. “Long story short, I – well, here.”

He pulls out something small and red, sets it down to the side of the chess board and pushes it forward.

It takes a few seconds to compute what it is, but once he does Lucius laughs, hands reaching out to the paper edges to gently turn the figure round.

“I know it’s a little crumpled,” Ed says as Lucius continues to examine the gift. “I’ve had it saved for a few days. And it took a while to get the folds right, so…”

“It’s adorable,” Lucius chuckles, turning the paper back around so the intricate fold of the fox’s muzzle is facing him again. His grasp of origami is rudimentary at best, so how Ed managed to give the tail its curled and puffed up appearance is beyond him. The detail Ed has put into the colouring is also extraordinary. There’s a texture to the red that makes Lucius think Ed might actually have coloured the paper himself to give an impression of fur, while the black slits for eyes add an air of mischievousness to the creature’s expression. “Thank you,” he says, looking up to give Ed another warm and heartfelt smile. A paper fox might not seem much, but in a place like this with limited resources and a high level of official duties and demands on every inmate, Lucius knows making this, especially to such quality, must have used up a considerable portion of Ed’s free time. You’d have to be horribly hard-hearted, Lucius thinks, not to be touched by the effort.

Ed beams at the compliment.

“Happy Birthday!” he cheers, lifting his hands above his shoulders, palms up. The salutation makes Lucius blink his head back in surprise, but Ed carries on before he can respond. “I’m so glad you made it today. It was a real stroke of luck, the date falling on a visit, but I thought for sure your plans would clash and I’d have to give it to you late. Which would have been fine, but it’s not the same is it? I would have made a card as well, but they only had paper and I thought it would be too flimsy.”

So that’s why Ed thought he might not come today. The idea that Ed had assumed Lucius might cancel his visit without warning in favour of birthday plans, and apparently considered such behaviour to be _fair_ , is a sad one. But it’s not the first thought that comes to mind on learning Ed had meant the fox as a birthday gift.

“How did you know?” Lucius asks.

“Hmmm? Oh. Same way I know the time and place you were born. When you graduated. When you had your first kiss. When you started at Wayne Enterprises. That kind of thing. I know lots about you, Foxy.” Ed lifts his eyebrows, a twist of pride filling out his smile. Then after a second his eyes dull and the grin fades. “Which is not… That’s not normal, is it?”

Lucius flattens his lips. Despite the unnerving amount of personal information Ed just revealed himself privy to he feels a rush of _pity_. Because the question echoes the one Ed had asked him all those months ago – _my actions seem mad to you?_ The fearful uncertainty of a man just beginning to glimpse the depths of his insanity.

“Not really,” Lucius tells him, believing now as he had then that simple honesty is the best and kindest response he can offer. “It’s a little…” _Invasive_ is what Lucius intends to say, but before he gets there one of the points Ed had listed finally registers, leading him into a tangent. “Wait. My first kiss?”

A sheepishness enters Ed’s expression and he refuses to meet Lucius’ eye as he answers.

“Tanya Johnson. You were fourteen, she was fifteen. Neither of you were particularly taken with the experience…” He shrugs, eyes flicking back as he adds – “She’s married now, so you know. She and her wife run a bakery in Central City.”

“Oh. Well. Good for her.” Lucius barely registers what he’s saying, his mind is too busy travelling back and back. He remembers punch – fruit and fizz and something that made him cough. A birthday party he thinks, of a school friend long forgotten who’d been bragging about swiping something from their parents’ liqueur cabinet. “Tanya Johnson…” Yes. She was wearing a yellow dress with a bow in her hair. Shy, like him, and hovering in the corner while the other kids played truth or dare or some nonsense. He’d gone to keep her company. Ended up babbling about science and experimental technology, the punch making him light-headed and giddy. And yes, he _had_ kissed her. Lucius shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. Because he’d known it was counter to his preference. But in the interests of science, he’d told her, it was important to rule out all opposition to a hypothesis before proceeding to test it. If what Ed says about her is true, and Lucius doesn’t doubt the accuracy of Ed’s obsessive research, then the fact she’d agreed to his decidedly unromantic advance makes a lot more sense now. “How do you…?” Lucius starts. But the sight of Ed chewing his lip, the harsh black and white of his prison uniform making his skin seem paler than usual in comparison, changes his mind. This Ed is not the same Ed who stalked him, and apparently his old school friends too, for information – what benefit will it serve prying into how he did it? “On second thought, I don’t need to know.”

“I, uh…” Ed coughs. “I also know both your telephone numbers, your bank account number and your GCPD computer password. So, um. You should probably change those.”

There’s a pause as Lucius absorbs this information.

“Noted,” is all he says, matter of fact not accusatory, but it’s enough to make Ed’s face crumple nonetheless.

“Am I –? Is this –?” he starts. “Perhaps this was inappropriate. I didn’t mean –”

He reaches forward to take the fox back.

“Hey,” Lucius says, pulling the paper creature out of reach so Ed’s fingers snatch at empty space. “Birthdays are fine,” he assures. “Friends are supposed to celebrate each other’s birthdays. This was kind.” He taps the fox’s ear while Ed plops back in his chair. “As for the rest, well… you can’t forget what you already know. So…”

Lucius trails off. He doesn’t want to say Ed’s invasion of his privacy is okay, because it isn’t, but is uncertain how to phrase the fact that it no longer matters without giving that impression. Then he catches Ed pressing his fist to his lips, trying to stifle a smile, and the dilemma is forgotten.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” Ed mutters. Guilty and dismissive all at once. “You just…” His hands fold together across the table, eyes following them. “ _Friends_ ,” he quotes and the smile creeps back despite his best efforts.

Oh.

Yes. He had said that, hadn’t he?

But then at this point, after everything they’ve been through together, everything they’ve shared – well, aren’t they? They’re hardly enemies anymore, if they ever truly were. And they know too much of each other to be acquaintances. What _else_ would you call them?

“I could try and forget,” Ed offers, lifting his face, expression bright and earnest. Hoping to prove himself in his newfound role. “There might be some technique for it. Or a drug maybe.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Lucius tells him. A little too quickly it would seem, because Ed’s face drops, eyes turning cold with hurt – or is it anger? – at the perceived slur. “You don’t need to risk yourself I mean,” Lucius adds, glad to see Ed’s expression warm again once he does. “Maybe we could balance things out instead. You know so much about me, but I know very little about you. Perhaps you could tell me more about yourself, put us on equal footing?”

“Logical,” Ed nods. “What would you like to know?”

“Let’s start with – when’s your birthday?”

“Oh. It was April, you missed it.” Ed shrugs but his casualness feels oddly strained.

“April when?” Lucius shrugs back. “So I know for next year.”

“Um…” Ed smiles but just for a moment, then he’s biting his cheek and turning away. He doesn’t seem upset, rather _embarrassed_ , but what’s embarrassing about a birthday Lucius can’t fathom. “April uh… April first.”

Ah.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Ed sighs. “Go ahead, joke. I’m a literal April Fool.”

Now it’s Lucius’ turn to stifle a grin.

“Well, it could have been worse,” he says, conciliatory. “At least you weren’t born at Christmas time, right? No doubled up presents growing up.”

When Ed turns back his eyes are soft but sad – a mirror of the pity Lucius had so recently experienced for him. It’s a strange reversal, with Lucius for once feeling the more child-like of the two of them. As if his comment has somehow exposed his ignorance, leaving Ed torn between wanting to educate and finding the innocence endearing.

“No,” Ed answers. “No, I just… I didn’t get presents growing up. It was always – Happy Birthday Eddie! Ha ha, kidding, April Fool!”

He rolls his eyes, like it’s not a big deal, but the way his fingers strum across the table tells Lucius otherwise. He wants to convey his sympathies, but doesn’t want to put too great an emphasis on something it seems like Ed is trying to forget.

“Children can be cruel,” he settles on. Not a comforting platitude, but better than nothing.

“Children?” Ed frowns, stilling his fingers. “Oh. You think –” He gives a mirthless chuckle. “The kids at school never learnt my birthday. Or well… I suppose one of them might have, but she wasn’t…” His lips twist in distaste. “Nevermind. I was actually talking about my father.”

“Oh.” Thoughts of being reticent falter and die. “God Ed, I’m sorry.”

But Ed is already talking over him, waving his hands.

“No, no, don’t. I – I shouldn’t have said anything.” He purses his lips. “It’s your birthday,” he goes on, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Way to ruin the mood, Ed. I really am stupid.” Breathing deep he draws his hand away and hugs his arms to his chest. “My therapist tells me I need to stop making every conversation about myself. Apparently it’s ‘dangerously egotistical.’” He gives a flat smile. “Guess I need to work harder on that.”

A therapist telling their patient not to talk about themselves seems counterproductive to Lucius, but presumably the advice was not intended for therapy sessions. As much as he wants to encourage actions recommended by Ed’s doctors, an opportunity to learn more about Ed’s past, and by doing so build a better, more intimate understanding of the man, feels too important to pass up.

“Well, far be it for me to question a medical professional,” he says. “But I think that if you _want_ to talk and the other party –” He rests a hand on his chest. “– is willing to listen. Then it’s probably okay.”

Ed pinches the loose black and white fabric at his elbows as he thinks this over – a quiet fidgeting that lasts so long Lucius is about to dismiss the idea and direct them back to the chess board when Ed stops to readjust his glasses and nods.

“Okay. Yes.” He drops his gaze for a moment and takes a breath, then brushes his fingers across the edge of the table, as though clearing it of dust. Lucius waits quietly, letting Ed prepare himself however he needs to. “Okay,” Ed repeats. He rests his palms flat across the tabletop and lifts his head to meet Lucius’ gaze full on. “You know they say the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over and expecting different results?”

“I’m aware of the saying, yes,” Lucius nods.

“Well then, I should have known I was destined for this place, because that was my childhood in a nutshell. Especially on my birthday.” The tips of Ed’s fingers tap intermittently against the table. “Every year I’d think this time would be different, and every year he’d –” Ed cuts off, face darkening, and licks his lips. “It was always the same,” he starts again. “April morning would roll around and I’d take myself off to school like usual without a word from my father, like he didn’t know or didn’t care what day it was. But then later that evening once I got home he’d give some variation on the April Fool’s joke, usually with a creatively literal punchline, and that would be that.” Lucius had suspected the truth of Ed’s home life to be something of this kind, but it’s still upsetting to have it confirmed. No child should have to suffer that, especially not from a parent. But before Lucius can offer comfort Ed is continuing. “But I used to see the other kids on their birthdays, you know? They’d be laughing and singing with their friends. Then at the end of the day their mothers and fathers would meet them at the school gates, all smiles and presents and balloons. And I’d watch them walking home, balloon bobbing about in the air above their heads.” He tilts his own head, lifting a hand to circle a point where such a balloon might hover. “And I’d imagine –” His nose wrinkles, hand snapping into a fist. “– _popping_ it, so they’d cry! Heh!” Then his anger dissipates and he drops his hand back to the table with a sigh. “But only because I wanted one. God I wanted one _so badly_.” His lips twitch in a humourless grin, head shaking. “So every year while I was at school I’d tell myself that this birthday I’d be the one with their dad waiting at the gate. I’d tell myself that him not saying anything in the morning and all the times before was just some game he was playing and at the end of the day he’d be there to surprise me. And he’d have a green balloon.” His gaze, which had grown distant, fixes back to Lucius as he explains – “All the other kids had red or blue or yellow, so of course I wanted green to be different.” The detail makes Lucius smile. A green balloon – it’s such an innocent thing for Ed to have wanted. “I didn’t think about presents,” Ed goes on. “I suppose deep down I knew that was too much to expect. But sometimes I imagined he might take me out after school, and we’d walk down by the river and get hot chocolate to drink on the pier. And he’d tell me…” Ed stops and turns away. “Oh, you know,” he shrugs, voice growing thin. “That I was smart and he was proud of me, all that dumb stuff kids like to hear.” He swallows and sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “That was all I wanted. All he’d need to give me my dream birthday – one lousy balloon and some cocoa powder. And every year I actually believed… Wow, I was such an _idiot_.”

He plants both elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands, palms cupping his forehead to avoid his glasses.

The gesture is not unlike the way Lucius had found him at his apartment and he has to thread his fingers together to suppress the urge to reach across the table and take Ed by the hand as he had back then.

“No,” he says. “No you weren’t. You were a kid. He was your father.”

“He was a brute!” Ed answers, voice muffled by his arms. “He was a mindless thug who never cared about me.” Inhaling sharply he sits back and returns his hands to the table, eyes shining as he faces Lucius again. “If I’d just been _smarter_ ,” he hisses. “I would have seen that and not let him push me around for so long.”

So this is where his obsession with unlocking a stronger, smarter version of himself had been born.

“Ed, that’s not –” Lucius starts, then cuts himself off because that sounds too judgmental. “Listen,” he tries again, pressing his palms together and angling them prayer-like in Ed’s direction. “I may not be a psychiatrist and I can’t begin to imagine what it was like growing up that way, but I do know you are not responsible for what your father did to you.” Ed parts his lips but Lucius doesn’t give him the chance to argue. “That’s not opinion-based hypothesis, Ed,” he insists. “That’s _fact_. You were a minor under his care, it was not on you to defend yourself against him. And it’s not wrong or foolish to want the approval of someone who raised you, no matter what kind of man he was. You were not less of a person because of what he did or for hoping he would change.”

Ed remains open-mouthed, lips stretching wider a couple of times as he attempts to respond, until eventually he draws a ragged breath and turns away, blinking, hands interlocking so tight his knuckles grow pale.

Lucius swallows. He’d meant to comfort not add to Ed’s distress, but what does he know about coping with childhood trauma? Perhaps he’d overstepped.

“I’m sorry. It’s not my place to –”

“It’s okay,” Ed nods, voice tight, still not looking at Lucius. “It’s okay.”

His fingers flutter up and down and Lucius wonders if he’s also resisting the urge to touch. On learning the rules here Lucius had never imagined this would be the difficult one – he’s not a tactile man on the whole and always got the sense that Ed, for all his flare, was similarly hesitant in that regard. But there’s something about them together that strips away that particular barrier, putting Lucius at ease in Ed’s presence in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time. Not since Thomas. Ironic, given Ed’s history of physical violence.

“Y– your dad,” Ed starts, hesitant. “He was pretty great I bet?”

From the way his voice softens Lucius can tell Ed’s use of the past tense is more than a reference to the man’s behaviour during childhood and it comes as no surprise that Ed should be aware of his father’s passing.

“He was,” Lucius answers, grateful Ed had chosen not to use this knowledge against him, unlike he had with other aspects of Lucius’ past, like Paris.

“He and your mom probably threw you some amazing birthday parties,” Ed goes on and a dozen examples ranging from mundane to disastrous immediately spring to mind.

“I don’t know about amazing,” Lucius smiles. “But, uh, my brothers and sister and I, we enjoyed them.”

Ed swallows.

“Tell me about them?” he asks. “The parties I mean.”

“There’s… not much to tell. They were hardly extravagant.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care if the details are boring I – I want to hear what a real birthday party is like. Please?”

How can he refuse when the request is so simple and clearly means so much?

“Well…” Lucius casts his mind back, seeking an appropriate starting point. “There was this one year – my mother made fruitcake, because it’s my favourite. But my sister hates it. Always has. Still does. So as mom was bringing the cake out she dropped a packet of Mentos into all five bottles of soda on the table.”

Any lingering sorrow in Ed melts into a pure and easy flurry of laughter.

“No!”

“Yeah,” Lucius nods. “It, uh. It wasn’t pretty. The cake was ruined. And most of the food already on the table. Mom was furious. But the rest of us were laughing too hard to even care.”

The joy in Ed’s eyes is almost as heart-warming as the memory.

“Oh, and then there was the year my parents tried to throw a barbeque and almost set fire to my best friend. That was a good one…”

And so Lucius goes on, memories coming thick and fast now he’s started with Ed listening with rapt attention to them all. It’s been years since Lucius has been so open with anyone, he’d forgotten how much fun it can be. By the end of the visit both of them are in stitches over various birthday time antics experienced by Lucius and his family over the years and even the orderlies seem softer than usual, exchanging smiles with Ed and Lucius in turn as they open the door.

As Lucius is leaving, paper fox in hand, Ed tells him to have a good evening and that he hopes the celebrations tonight are as good as his childhood ones and Lucius comes very close to telling Ed they already have been. He tells himself once he’s stepped through the door that it was for Ed’s benefit that he held his tongue – to avoid feeding the other man’s diagnosed egotism. But it’s a weak lie that does little to mask the truth Lucius is affecting indifference to – namely that his visit to Ed has been and will be the _only_ celebration of his birthday this year.

Not that his family have dismissed the occasion – he has cards and his mother had called to wish him well. But with his siblings all in high flying jobs in other cities and his mother unable to travel far these days it’s been years since the Foxes got together for a birthday. Hell, getting everyone together for Christmas is hard enough. Lucius had thought about inviting Alfred and Bruce out for drinks or a meal, but the two of them were so thoroughly absorbed in their own night time affairs he hadn’t wanted to interrupt and he still felt like too much of an outsider at the GCPD to try being the one hosting a social gathering. 

Still, he thinks, as he props his paper gift on the dashboard of his car where it seems to wink at him in the moonlight, as birthdays go it hasn’t been bad.

 

* * *

  

The following week, after a lengthy series of negotiations on entry, Lucius brings in a package wrapped in emerald paper and tied with string that floats up and around the knot of a neon green balloon.

Ed is so excited by the belated birthday present that he literally begs and begs the orderlies to let him make use of it at once. Worn down by his persistence Diedre finally steps out and returns five minutes later with two mugs and a kettle of boiling water.

The subsequent chess match is punctuated by companionable sips of chocolate, balloon tied to the edge of Ed’s chair and bopping over his shoulder every time he leans forward to make a move.

 

* * *

 

“Check,” Lucius says, an unprecedented five minutes into their visit three weeks later.

“Hmmm?” Ed lifts his chin from his hand and glances at the board. “Where?”

There’s no reaction when Lucius points out the danger, Ed simply castles and returns his cheek to his palm. The tactic buys Ed two, maybe three moves at best.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Ed replies, staring into the distance.

He doesn’t sound troubled, just distracted, and the lack of attention inspires a mischievousness Lucius hasn’t felt since grad school.

“Okay,” he nods, continuing in his usual deadpan fashion. “Well then, I’m going move my pawn five spaces to b8 and exchange it for another king.”

“Umm-hum,” Ed nods into his hand. “Good move.” There’s a four or five second beat, then Ed frowns and drops his arm to the table. “Wait, what?”

His eyes flick to the untouched board in search of the illegal move then up to where Lucius is waiting with a grin.

“So you are still with me then,” Lucius says and Ed’s face clears.

“I suppose I have been less than attentive,” he answers. “I’ve just… I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Well if you need an ear, I’ve got two.”

Ed breaks into a smile.

“I appreciate the offer,” he answers. “But kind as it is, it’s not particularly helpful when the question of talking to you or not is at the heart of my dilemma.”

Fascinating. But Lucius doesn’t push, only quirks an eyebrow.

He doesn’t have to wait long for his curiosity to be sated because soon enough Ed is launching into an explanation. Silence is a good tactic with Ed, Lucius is finding. The other man can’t resist filling an unscripted pause. 

“One of the leaders in Group the other day suggested something… interesting,” Ed tells him, steepling his fingers. “They uh, they said that to move on from the past it can be helpful to contact the people you’ve wronged and, um –” His thumb and fingers tap together in unison. “– apologise,” he finishes, hands breaking apart and holding up between them, pre-emptively defensive. “I know, I know,” he goes on. “It sounds… ridiculous. I mean, considering the crimes you have to commit in order to be here, trying to apologise for them is a good way to get spit in your eye, or worse! I know that…” He pauses to lick his lips and push at the bridge of his glasses – a delaying tactic more than a necessary adjustment, Lucius suspects. It’s one of several nervous tics he’s begun to indentify that Ed performs whenever the topic of conversation grows more sombre or emotional than he’d intended. “Most of the people I’ve wronged, or… or their families… would not exactly be pleased to hear from me, apology or not. So…” He lets his hands fall to the table, twisting his fingers round and around each other. “So I was going to write the whole thing off. Except… well… I’ve wronged _you_ , Foxy.” His eyes meet Lucius for a split second then dart away. “And I thought perhaps you might… That is, you wouldn’t mind if I…”

Once again the crossword riddle Ed had left for him all those months ago comes to mind. If that was Ed requesting forgiveness as much as offering it then it stands to reason he’d crave the closure of an answer.

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Lucius assures as Ed trails off. “If you think it would help.”

Ed nods several times.

“Okay,” he says, locking his hands together and holding them and the rest of him still. “Okay, here goes.” He takes a breath, head and shoulders rising up with it, and fixes his eyes on Lucius. “Foxy, I – no,” he cuts himself off with a tight shake of his head. “Lucius Fox,” he starts again. “I am sorry. I am sorry for hurting you. For scaring you. Endangering you. Using you. I’m sorry, for everything.”

Lucius straightens his back and folds his own hands before him, matching Ed’s formality.

“Edward Nygma, I accept your apology,” he answers. Adding, after a beat – “And I forgive you.”

The addition makes Ed’s eyes grow wide for a moment. A flash of white. An intake of breath. Then his nose wrinkles and he puffs out a sigh, lips folding down as he turns away.

“What’s the matter?” Lucius asks, bemused. “Not the response you were hoping for?”

He glances at the still black pieces on Ed’s side of the board. He hadn’t expected forgiveness, perhaps.

“Not exactly,” Ed mutters. “It’s just –” He presses his lips together and twists them about as he turns back and the expression gives him an air of petulance. “I’m baring my heart here, practically in sackcloth and ashes!” His waves a hand up and down his prison uniform. “Whereas you jump straight to ‘I forgive you.’ Just like that?”

Ah. No, it wasn’t punishment Ed was seeking, it was spectacle.

“You think I should have offered my forgiveness with more… flair?” Lucius queries, unimpressed.

His tone must be effective because Ed drops his eyes and licks his lips again.

But only for a second. Then he lifts his head and carries on.

“I think it’s too easy, that’s all,” he says. “If one quick ‘sorry’ is all it takes to make things right then –” He shrugs. “Was what I did even so bad?”

“I see,” Lucius answers. “You think I’m being too flippant about your crimes.” There’s logic to that, although it’s hard to tell if overlooking the severity of his misdeeds is an affront to Ed’s sense of justice or to his pride. “Alright,” Lucius goes on before Ed can respond. “Then let’s go over them, shall we?”

Ed blinks.

“What?”

“Your crimes. Towards me at least,” Lucius says, holding Ed’s gaze, even as Ed’s face clouds over and he hunches back into his chair. “You think I haven’t given them sufficient consideration, so allow me to do so now. Let’s see, starting with the most recent…” He holds out a finger and taps it with the index one of his other hand, counting. “You broke into my home and destroyed a good deal of my belongings –”

“Yes, but,” Ed interjects. “You know I wasn’t entirely myself at the time. And I was actually trying to prevent myself hurting others by coming to you.”

“Before that,” Lucius continues, freeing up and tapping a second finger and ignoring the interruption. “You broke into my home in search of medical supplies, threatened me at gunpoint and made me indirectly complicit in your earlier robbery when I helped patch you up and essentially harboured you, as a criminal, for the night.”

“Neither of those last two I actually asked you to do, by the way,” Ed adds, pointing his own finger.

“Before that,” Lucius presses, tapping a third finger and still refusing to acknowledge the additional commentary. “You threatened me and multiple others in one of my favourite drinking establishments. One I am now banned from returning to, might I add. You then proceeded to drug me, without my knowledge or my consent, with the intention of making me more inclined to spend the evening with you.”

“I never took advantage though, Foxy, you remember that –”

“Are you apologising for your behaviour or defending it?” Lucius cuts into Ed’s latest intrusion, fingertip paused on his third finger as he stares hard at the other man, waiting on a response.

Ed parts his lips. Closes them. Licks them. Then nods, contrite.

“I’m sorry. _Again_ ,” he mutters. “Carry on.”

“Before _that_ ,” Lucius says, tapping his fourth finger. “You engaged me in a series of so called ‘games’ in which you placed the burden of many lives, including my own, on whether or not I successfully deciphered a series of puzzles in the precise manner that you deemed appropriate. Not to mention leaving me with a nasty bruise on the back of my head when you knocked me out in my car.” Ed says nothing this time, just meets Lucius’ gaze in silence. Now out of fingers, Lucius reaches under his knuckles and taps his thumb. “And finally, you trapped me in the basement of this very facility, forced me to submit to interrogation and gassed me with what I had been led to believe was a deadly toxin. But worse than that –” Abandoning his count, Lucius rests both elbows on the table and clasps his hands before his face, staring sternly over the top of his interlocked fingers. “You forced Bruce Wayne to suffer the same treatment alongside me. And _you know_ , Ed, better than anyone, what that boy means to me.”

Although Lucius has long since put the incident behind him he still remembers. Can still _feel_ it. The paralysing dread that first hiss of gas had provoked. And hot on its heels, a numbing wave of grief. Knowing he’d failed to protect Bruce just as he’d failed the boy’s parents. That Thomas and Martha’s legacy was to be stolen from the world precisely as they had been and once again Lucius was powerless to stop it. It still haunts him that he hadn’t at least hugged Bruce then. Thomas would have wanted that, he thinks, for his son to know a loving embrace in his final moments. But he’d been overwhelmed by the immediacy of the situation and retreated, as he so often does, to the safety of formality, thinking that a handshake would help them both be strong, would keep Bruce calm.

And all the while Ed had been laughing over the speaker.

Looking at the man now – eyes soft, arms curling into himself – it’s difficult to reconcile this Ed, the Ed Lucius has come to know as his friend, with that high pitched voice cheerfully threatening his and Bruce Wayne’s demise. And part of Lucius longs to separate them entirely – to write off the voice in that chamber as Ed’s sickness and not the truth of the man. But sick or not, wholly responsible for his actions or not, Lucius and Bruce had still been harmed that night and it was Ed who inflicted the pain. It’s important for him and Ed both to remember that.

“And this, of course –” Lucius goes on so as not to dwell on unhappy memories. “– is without taking into account the various ongoing invasions of my privacy, the personal information you uncovered about me, the number of times you broke into my apartment without my knowledge –”

Ed interrupts again, but his voice is too croaky for Lucius to make sense of his words. After a quick cough Ed repeats himself.

“Four,” he says. “There were four times.”

Lucius flattens his lips and nods his acceptance of this confession.

“So.” Lucius stretches his arms, hands still clasped, out in front of him across the table. “Having considered all that. If you think I would offer my forgiveness _lightly_ , then you are very much mistaken.”

In the silence that follows Ed’s lips press tight and tighter together, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows while a now familiar yearning reaches his eyes. As though he wants to say something more but doesn’t know how.

Until finally he shuts his eyes and wrestles back some control, angling his head down and breathing deep through his nose.

“Okay,” he whispers, blinking clear eyes back to Lucius. “Thank you.”

They both leave a respectful pause to let the moment settle.

Then –

“Do you think maybe –?” Ed starts. “Should I… should I speak to Bruce?”

The very idea sends a jolt of panic through Lucius. Not because he thinks Bruce couldn’t handle it – on the contrary, Lucius is sure Bruce would maintain perfect decorum, might be sympathetic even – but because it hits him in that moment that not only does he _like_ having a monopoly on Ed’s attention, he also likes having it _privately_.

In his topsy turvy life as a member of the GCPD and sometime supporter of teenage vigilantism, forever a small cog in a multitude of bigger pictures yet never fully part of any of them, meeting with Ed has become a refuge. Ed has, ironically given both his character and location, become the one person in Lucius’ life _outside_ of all the madness and the one person with whom Lucius feels _whole_. Because Ed has seen and known near all of him at this point and all of him is relevant to Ed. Putting Ed and Bruce in contact will open up that easy, personal world between them and, knowing Bruce’s natural curiosity and Alfred’s protectiveness of his charge, subject Lucius’ relationship with the former criminal to a scrutiny Lucius isn’t sure he’s ready for.

While the nuances of this revelation can’t possibly be seen from his face, something must have made its way to his expression because Ed reacts by shaking his head.

“No, no, you’re right,” he hurries to add, making his own assumptions about Lucius’ internal conflict. “It wouldn’t be appropriate. Forget it.” He chews his bottom lip. “But um… could you tell him from me? That I’m sorry?”

“I…”

That Ed assumes Lucius’ concern is solely for Bruce is touching and leaves him more than a little ashamed of the complicated and possessive nature of his actual response. So Lucius nods, rather more firmly than necessary, to push through his misgivings. If apologising to his victims really is therapeutic for Ed then Lucius should be supportive and not let his own selfish desires get in the way of Ed’s recovery.

“Yes. I will.”

When Ed smiles in thanks Lucius feels compelled to offer more.

“I could… I could talk to others at the GCPD, if you wanted to take this further? Maybe Harvey or Jim would be willing to –”

Ed cuts him off with a puff of laughter.

“Thank you,” he answers. “But no. I don’t think anyone at the precinct is going to want to talk to me. Save your breath and your time.”

His tone is a practical statement of fact, devoid of both sadness and disappointment, so Lucius takes it on himself to experience each of them for him. The logic is sound – knowing the Gotham police, the chances of any of them offering to help rehabilitate a criminal who’d hurt more than one of their own are slim. And Lucius understands that, he does. But at the same time, seeing Ed trying so hard to earn a second chance, it’s frustrating to think that so many are unwilling to grant him one.

“Perhaps…” Ed goes on, pressing a fingertip to his black king and rocking it back and forth. “Perhaps I should speak to Oswald,” he muses.

“Why?”

A returning flare of panic makes the question sharper than Lucius intended and Ed stills his idle fingers at the tone, eyes narrowing as he flicks them up.

“Well,” he starts, pressing harder against the king’s cross. “Among other things, I did shoot him and push him in the river, then attempt to kill him – again – several times.” He grits his teeth. “Albeit without success.” In the wake of the admission his face softens and he swallows. Lucius is reminded of his initial struggle to speak of Penguin’s murder aloud – _I… I just… killed the best friend I’ve ever had_. “As wronging someone goes that’s… pretty big.” His eyes fall back to the chess piece, thumb rubbing almost tenderly up and down the side as he continues. “I’ve probably racked up enough good behaviour for a phone call. Even if I can’t get through to him I could leave a message, ask him to visit.”

“ _No_ ,” Lucius snaps. The word flies out of him so fast he doesn’t know who’s more startled by it, Ed or himself. “I mean…” He coughs, bringing his voice back to a more appropriate volume. “I don’t think that would be in your best interests,” he goes on, seeking some logical reason for his outburst. “Wanting to apologise to Penguin is noble, but he does not share that characteristic. Oswald Cobblepot isn’t… he’s not a good man, Ed. And he has a tendency to… to incite unhealthy emotions in people. I fear that talking to him… well it may be more likely to endanger your recovery than aid it.”

Ed stares at him a moment, then lifts his chin so his lenses flash white, making the accompanying curve of his lips hard to read.

“Sooo…” he starts, stretching the word so it sounds sly. “You don’t want me talking to Oswald –” His head tilts to the side, bringing his eyes back into focus. “– because you think he’s a bad influence on me?”

He lifts an eyebrow, eyes and smile bright with some hidden knowledge that makes Lucius loosen his tie, suddenly too hot beneath his collar.

“I, um… I don’t…” he stammers as he continues to run his fingers around the fabric at his neck. 

The summary is accurate, but Ed’s questioning tone highlights an ambiguity to Lucius’ fears about Ed meeting with Penguin again that Lucius is unwilling to expose, even to himself. 

“You’re probably right,” Ed adds, dropping the subject. Much to Lucius’ relief. “I won’t call him.”

Lucius uncurls his fingers from his tie and sighs.

“Now.” Ed lifts up the black king he’s been toying with and taps it back into place. “Let’s see if I can salvage this game, shall we?”

“We could start a new one if you like,” Lucius offers, glad to be back on solid ground.

“No, no,” Ed insists with a grin and shake of his head. “I like the challenge.”

And several moves later he proves himself worthy of it by rallying his troops into an unexpected victory. Fast enough that there’s time for two games more.

Ed continues to play black for them all.

 

* * *

  

“Hey you two,” Lucius greets Nina and Diedre outside the visiting room. It’s two weeks on and he’s enough of a regular by this point that Asylum security no longer sends him with an escort, trusting he can make his way unsupervised. It’s a surprise to find the two orderlies outside though. Lucius discovered just recently that the girls are in fact Ed’s official security detail, tasked to keep eyes on him at all times barring washing and sleeping. Hence why it’s always them on the inside of the visiting room, while the outside is manned by rotated staff. “What are you doing out here? Is this punishment for some misdemeanour?” he jokes. “The Arkham equivalent of standing in the corner?”

Jokes are not Lucius’ forte so he doesn’t expect a raucous response, but when neither woman cracks so much as smile Lucius’ follow up chuckle dies on his lips. 

“What is it? Did something happen?” he asks, stomach dropping. Has Ed suffered another episode? He’s been doing so well lately Lucius hadn’t even thought – but like he’d told Ed himself, the road to recovery was going to have its ups and downs. If today was a Down then Lucius is ready to help Ed through it however he can.

“We’re just outside today, that’s all,” Diedre tells him after a pause but the supposed reassurance sits ill with Lucius. He and the orderlies have hardly grown into bosom buddies over the past month, but their conversations have progressed from curt instructions to polite small talk at least. Enough to make a reversion to Diedre’s original flat and professional tone feel jarring. “You can go in.”

She pushes the door open and holds it and Lucius is so distracted looking between her and her partner as he walks through that he doesn’t notice until he’s fully inside that the table is empty, of both the chess board and Ed himself.

The door clicks shut behind him, making him jump, and at the same time a familiar voice pipes up to his right.

“Hi.”

Still disorientated by Ed’s absence from his chair, Lucius turns left at first. He briefly meets the eye of a tall, stern faced guard in full blue and white uniform and hat, one he only half recognises from previous visits, beefy arms folded high across his chest. Then he turns again to find the source of the greeting.

Ed is standing a few paces from Lucius’ shoulder, a second guard poised behind him in Nina’s usual position, back against the wall.

That Ed is on his feet and out of his mandated position is strange in itself but to compound Lucius’ confusion Ed is also angled slightly away from him, head bent, forehead pressed against the curled fingers of his right hand. His left arm meanwhile is wrapped about his midriff, hand twisting in and out of the black and white fabric there.

“Listen, Foxy,” Ed starts before Lucius can get a word in. “I’m not feeling well today. I’m going to have to cancel our visit this week.”

Faced with too many out of place puzzle pieces to form a coherent picture the best response Lucius can muster to this is –

“Oh.”

“It’s nothing personal, you understand,” Ed adds, turning just a touch in Lucius’ direction but keeping his face down, raised arm obscuring his expression.

“No, of course,” Lucius answers, reacting on instinct to the civility even as his anxiety grows, tight lines stacking up across his brow. “You can’t help being sick… it… it’s nothing serious?”

“No,” Ed mutters, nose scrunching up. “No. I just… I just need to lie down for a bit and I’ll be right as rain.”

His words are rushed and overly bright and far from the comfort they should be.

“Are you… are you sure?” Lucius presses.

“Um-hum,” Ed hums, lowering his head closer to his arm as he nods in a way that does little to calm Lucius’ concern.

“Ed, look at me,” Lucius insists, unable to bear the discomfort of Ed’s unorthodox and closed off position any longer. “I need you to look at me and tell me you’re okay.”

It’s Ed’s hesitation over this that convinces Lucius things are not what they seem.

“Ed,” he tries again, reaching for Ed’s elbow.

He’s not laid so much as a finger on his friend when a meaty hand grabs his shoulder and yanks him back.

“No touching!” the guard behind him snaps but Lucius dismisses both the touch and the instruction in favour of staring, open mouthed, because at the same time Ed turns and lifts his hand from his face to cry “wait, don’t!” and exposes the reason for his peculiar stance.

Ed’s right eye is a puffy, swollen circle of deep red, already darkening around the edges, while a jagged, still glistening line of broken skin mars his cheekbone below, matched by a split in his top lip.

Lucius shrugs the hand off his shoulder and steps closer.

“My god, what happened?”

Ed touches a hand to the corner of his glasses and fixes them higher up his nose, as though this might somehow keep his injury concealed.

“Hmmm?” he answers, high-pitched, eyes wide with counterfeit innocence. As wide as the swelling allows anyway. “Oh, this?” He circles a hand beside the wounded skin and his good eye flares, just for a second, with a touch of panic as he glances over Lucius’ shoulder and back. “It’s… it’s nothing.” He shrugs, suddenly smiling. “Walked into a door. You know how clumsy I can be! Hahaha!”  

While Ed’s laughter has a tendency to verge on hysterical at the best of times this burst sounds especially strained, his explanation as believable as Bruce and Alfred’s boldfaced claim of rock climbing that time at the precinct.

“You walked into a door?” Lucius repeats.

Ed casts another glance over Lucius’ shoulder, followed by hard nodding, and Lucius thinks he grasps the crux of the situation, if not the finer details. But when he opens his mouth to voice his suspicions, and perhaps demand the involvement of a more senior member of staff, Ed cuts him off.

“Just _leave it_ , Lucius, okay?” he hisses, eyes and voice turning icy cold in what might seem a threat under different circumstances. But given the context it feels more like a warning. “I’ve got to go.”

There’s no chance for Lucius to respond because the guard behind him sweeps between them with a wave of his well muscled arm, forcing Lucius to stumble back a few paces.

“You heard him,” the man growls over his shoulder. “Move, Nygma,” he adds, nodding to the man against the wall who steps forward at once and opens the door.

Despite giving the instruction the guard doesn’t wait for Ed to obey but lunges for his arm. Ed shrinks back from him, holding his arms close to his body, hands clasped prayer-like beneath his chin.

“Yes, yes, I’m going.” Ed slinks to the wall, giving the guard as wide a berth as possible as he steps through the doorway and the two men follow after without a word. Or a second glance at Lucius, who is left to grab at the door before it falls shut and let himself out.

Once on the other side Lucius stops in-between Nina and Diedre to watch, stone-faced, as the guards flank Ed - the gruff, violent one instructs the other to take the lead while he brings up Ed’s rear, keeping close to Ed’s heels so Ed is forced to dash forward every few paces to prevent a collision.  

“Who is that man?” Lucius asks, following the procession with narrowed eyes as they turn at the end of the corridor and slip out of sight.

“That’s Frank Boles,” Nina tells him, appearing at his shoulder. “A real piece of work.”

“Nina!” Diedre hisses from Lucius’ other side.

“What? It’s true isn’t it?”

Lucius turns to face them both and finds Nina with her arms folded across her chest, pouting at Diedre’s frown.

“Did you see it happen?” he asks them.

The girls share a look.

“See what happen?” Diedre shrugs, so Lucius dismisses her and focuses on Nina.

As the less talkative of the pair Nina’s uncharacteristic distress over her silence now is evident. From the moment Lucius turns to her she starts to fidget and soon caves under the pressure of his gaze.

“You mean Eddie’s face?” she asks.

It’s rhetorical – just filler intended to broach the subject – so Lucius merely lifts an eyebrow to encourage her on. The nickname is interesting though, he hadn’t realised the girls had grown so fond of their charge. That will be something to consider – but later. The more pressing concern is finding out what happened to his friend and what can be done about it.

“Well…” Nina starts. Then stops to glance at Diedre who gives a fast shake of her head. Nina runs a hand through her dark spikes of hair. “He slipped,” she mutters, refolding her arms and turning her gaze to floor. “Hit his head on a table.”

“He just told me he walked into a door.”

Caught in her lie Nina hunches her shoulders and looks away. 

When Lucius turns his accusatory glare to Diedre she tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear and sighs.

“Look, we’d like to help. We would,” she says. “But our jobs are on the line here. We got a… a kinda particular skill set. There’s not many options for us if we get fired.”

If Lucius hadn’t just witnessed first hand evidence of the assault and harassment Ed had suffered – was still suffering, and may well have _been_ suffering, unknown to Lucius, for god knows how long – he might have been more sympathetic. But as it is Diedre’s words sound like hollow excuses.

“This man Boles, _he’s_ the one whose job is in danger,” Lucius argues. “He’s the one flouting the rules, _breaking the law_ , by mistreating a patient in his care. How is your livelihood in jeopardy from speaking up against that?”

Another glance between the two girls, in which Nina shrugs and Diedre worries her bottom lip. Then finally Diedre stops and steps closer, lowering her head to whisper.

“Because he’s not the only one flouting the rules,” she says. “There’s a really strict policy here on workplace romance, okay? And, well…”

She trails off and pulls back, tense and awkward and apparently unsure how to continue. Until Nina steps up beside her and quietly slips her hand into the one hanging loose at Diedre’s side. Diedre calms and gives Nina a soft smile while Nina shoots Lucius a pointed look.

Lucius lets go of his judgement with a sigh, shoulders sagging. So that’s it.

Boles knows about their relationship no doubt, putting them in a stalemate – if they try to take him down he’ll make sure they go down with him. Can’t blame them for not wanting to take the risk and besides, the trials and tribulations of forbidden love are something Lucius has his fair share of experience with.

“I see,” he nods. “But there must be something we can do,” he goes on, refusing to give up. “Someone else who’s witnessed Bole’s misconduct perhaps?”

“You’ll have a hard time finding anyone willing to speak out,” Nina answers, giving Diedre’s hand a final squeeze before moving away. “His intimidation’s not exclusive to the inmates.” She turns down her lips in a frown that’s part apology, part resignation, before side-stepping away. “And now we gotta get back to work.” She nods to Diedre, who steps back in the opposite direction.

“Sorry,” Diedre says in place of goodbye and Lucius turns to watch them walk away, a careful three or four feet apart from each other.

Which turns his own frown quizzical. Because they’d just joined hands in a blatant display of affection, so why the pretence now?

He turns his gaze upwards and follows the line between the wall and the ceiling, down the corridor and back around to the visiting room door.

Two security cameras, angled in such a way that his body had been blocking the only line of sight that would have caught Nina and Diedre’s joined hands.

They’re old cameras. Lucius recognises the make and model as one Wayne Enterprises upgraded years ago. Not sophisticated enough to pick up quiet sound, like a whisper, but good enough to catch a face if the angle’s right and just fine for monitoring suspicious behaviour.

Good reason for the girls to be cautious. But as Lucius watches the red light on the closest camera flicker on and off, it occurs to him that this Mr Boles is unlikely to have shown similar discretion.

 

* * *

 

The next week proves a long and difficult seven days, but at the end of it Lucius is rewarded by the welcome sight of two strangers outside the visiting room door and the pleasing sound of mixed laughter from inside.

Diedre’s voice floats through the doorway as one of the new guards pushes it open, demanding someone ‘ask another.’

“Okay,” Ed answers. “I go in dry and come out wet,” he starts, bent forward over the table and grinning at his captive audience of two. Diedre is perched on the table’s edge, legs swinging, while Nina has the other chair, chess board unopened beside them. Ed flicks his eyes to the door as Lucius steps through but doesn’t let the interruption disrupt his flow. “The longer I’m in the stronger I get,” he continues, eyes dancing. Then he turns back to the girls to finish – “What am I?”

The girls glance at each other, smirking but silent. Then collapse in a fit of giggles.

“A teabag,” Lucius answers as their laughter dies down.

“Correct,” Ed nods, lips stretching, while Nina and Diedre turn around, red-faced.

“Mr Fox.”

“Hi, Mr Fox.”

They murmur their greetings together, Diedre hopping off the table as Nina vacates it, both of them nodding politely at Lucius as they pass to their usual spot by the door.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ed says, folding one hand on top of the other across the tabletop and leaning back. “Me and riddles, right?” Now Lucius stops to think about it Ed had seemed a little too close to ‘Riddler’ for comfort as he walked in. So Lucius inclines his head. “My therapist suggested I try a few. As a way of ‘confronting my demons.’ That kind of thing.”

Risky, Lucius thinks. But not unreasonable.

“Fair enough,” he answers and takes a moment to examine Ed’s eye as he sits. He’s happy to see the swelling has gone down considerably. The skin is now a nasty, mottled purple, fading into pale yellow round the outside, but that’s to be expected. It’s healing, and that’s what matters. Meanwhile the cuts on Ed’s cheek and lip are already gone. “To be honest, I’m just glad to see you’re feeling better after the… unpleasantness of last week.”

Ed sobers, lips pressing into a line. But only for an instant, because a new smile breaks out of him before he’s even finished discarding the old one.

“ _So_ much better,” he enthuses. “Did you hear?” He swings an arm over the table and leans across it, lowering his voice as if he’s sharing some conspiracy. “One of the guards here was _arrested_ the other day.”

“Arrested?” Lucius repeats, with what he hopes is suitable curiosity. And innocence.

“Mr Boles,” Ed explains with evident glee. “The particularly… hands on gentleman that presided over last week’s aborted social? Our very own Harvey Bullock came down to slap the cuffs on himself. Charged him with gross misconduct, accepting bribes and multiple counts of assault.”

Eleven counts, Lucius knows. But he holds his tongue.

“Apparently,” Ed goes on, bringing his other arm around to fold across the first, head dipping lower. “Someone –” His eyes flick up, assessing Lucius over the rim of his glasses. “– sent the relevant footage from the Asylum security feed directly to Captain Gordon. In an unmarked brown envelope.”

“Really?” Lucius keeps his expression blank.

“The envelope was a little uninspired,” Ed notes, like he’s critiquing a play. “I would have gone with something a bit more… colourful. But I suppose it fits with the whole clandestine, cloak and dagger approach.”

“Fascinating.” Lucius hurries on, eager to move Ed away from further musing on the best style of law breaking. “I wasn’t involved in the case. Is there… is there any information on who sent the recordings?”

Ed sits up and leans back in his chair.

With his eyes never leaving Lucius’ face he slowly shakes his head.

“Anonymous,” Ed answers and Lucius lets a thin, quiet sigh escape his lips.

It had been a simple thing to keep an eye on the investigation at the precinct. He was an inoffensive background presence there, easily ignored and soon forgotten. Like a waiter. Or a butler. Perhaps he should ask Alfred for some tips on stealth. In any case, a few surreptitious glances at the relevant paperwork had proven the GCPD had no leads on their anonymous whistleblower. What he couldn’t determine was if the Asylum had managed to uncover anything about the hacking of their system yet to be passed on to the police. But he’d known that if anyone had answers to that conundrum it would be Ed – even locked in his cell Lucius is certain Ed knows more about the goings on in this place than most of the staff. If he says the sender of the security footage is unknown then that means the Asylum and the GCPD have both failed to uncover any evidence that might lead them to the perpetrator.

Which means he’s officially in the clear.

“If you ask me though,” Ed continues. “Whoever did it was either exceptionally brave.” His gaze softens, lips twitching at the corners. Until his next words, spat out through bared teeth, each syllable clearly enunciated, wipes the ghostly smile away. “Or exceedingly _stupid._ ” Lucius flinches, but before he can mount a defence Ed is pressing on. “Hacking into city property is itself a criminal offense. If they’d been caught, that’s a jail sentence. Community Service if they’re lucky.” He wafts a hand about his face as he speaks – empty gestures meant only for emphasis. “Either way whatever career they might have would be over. Shortly followed by their life, perhaps. Mr Boles is not a forgiving man and I imagine his reach would extend beyond Blackgate, enough for the enactment of revenge at least. This anonymous benefactor took an astronomical risk.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucius shrugs. “I think you’re overlooking his evident skill.”

“Or hers,” Ed interrupts, flattening his hitherto active palm to the table and fixing Lucius with a hard stare.

“Yes. Yes of course.” Lucius swallows. That was a foolish slip that he can’t afford to make. “Or hers. What I – what I mean to say is simply that, if there are no leads on whoever sent the footage, then he – she - _they_ must have had ways of covering their tracks.”

Ed gives him a more thoughtful once over.

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But regardless. It was still a rash and reckless thing to do.”

The accompanying sneer doesn’t hit as hard now Lucius knows Ed’s disapproval stems from concern. So instead of flinching away he meets Ed’s eye with half a smile and nods.

“You’re probably right,” he says, clasping his hands before him, his next words slow and measured. “They must have believed, very deeply, that their cause was worth the danger.”

Something passes across Ed’s face too fast for Lucius to read – a creasing in his brow, a lick of his lips – then he’s swallowing and dropping his eyes to the table.

“Well, Mr Boles _was_ an… an unpleasant man,” Ed murmurs. “I doubt anyone is saddened by his departure. In fact –” He lifts his head, eyes clear again. “His loss has been taken as cause for celebration by most. Inmates and staff alike.”

He nods over Lucius’ shoulder and Lucius finds a knowing smile on Nina and Diedre’s lips as he turns to follow the gaze. His cheeks burn at the subtle dip of each orderly’s head, but it’s not shame or modesty warming his skin.

It’s elation.

The acknowledgement makes him feel like a soldier, or secret agent, being saluted for his service. So he gives a quick nod and smile back. Ambiguous enough to mean little to the watching camera in the right hand corner of the ceiling, but a gesture that unites the four of them in private understanding. 

“Some are even hailing the one responsible for Mr Boles’ incarceration as a hero,” Ed adds.

Now he’s finally done something to maybe, possibly, halfway earn the title Ed has misguidedly bestowed on him in the past, Lucius finds himself strangely disappointed at the thought of Ed rejecting the term now.

“Some, but not you?” he presses as he turns back, scanning Ed’s face for further information on his feelings about Lucius’ ‘reckless’ behaviour. But Ed just blinks up at him with exaggerated innocence.

“I didn’t say that,” he answers coyly. “Being a hero and being a fool are not mutually exclusive.” His eyes flick down, a splash of red warming the edges of his smile. “Much like being in love…”

There’s some quality to the way Ed makes this addendum, a quiet reverence, that captures Lucius’ next breath.

The sentiment is more than familiar – Lucius was a fool for love at Wayne Enterprises for many years. But it’s been a lifetime, if ever, that anyone became one for him.

Not that a fleeting, general comment implies such a thing. Or that Lucius would even want it to. But this is a logic rejected by his heart, which quickens regardless.

“The truth is,” Ed goes on, oblivious to the irrational state of being he’s inspired. “Despite my alleged disapproval, this mysterious vigilante has cause to be _my hero_ more than anyone’s. Because…” His lips curve down, apologetic maybe, and he bends forward. “I have to confess something to you, Foxy.” He takes a breath. “I didn’t walk into a door last week.” As he speaks he circles a hand over his damaged eye. “One of the people Mr Boles assaulted was… well, it was me.”

“I know,” Lucius answers softly, heartbeat falling to a steady, aching beat.

It hadn’t taken long to find the relevant footage. The swelling and the cuts on Ed’s cheek and lip had been fresh during their last encounter, so Lucius had known the assault must have been recent. All he had to do was search back a few hours.

Boles had been on guard duty during lunch and Ed, distracted by a cry from another inmate, had stepped into him. Nothing dramatic, just a slight brush of shoulders, but a drop of whatever sloppy, porridge-like substance the kitchen had been serving that day had fallen from his tray onto Boles’ shoe and the man had exploded. Loud enough that several repulsive insults could be heard with clarity on the security feed, followed by the vicious backhand smack Boles had delivered and the accompanying clatter as Ed’s tray had fallen to the ground.

From the rumours Lucius has picked up since joining the GCPD riots have started at the Asylum over less. So it was a testament to the fear Mr Boles must have inspired that everyone in the vicinity had done nothing but tense in response, before averting their gaze and returning to their business, leaving Ed to drop to his hands and knees in order to clean up the mess on the floor, swiping his bloodied face every so often with his sleeve. He hadn’t even attempted to ask for more food to replace his loss, just hunched over by himself at a table in the far corner and picked at the few unsoiled scraps remaining on his tray. The position kept his face angled away from the camera so Lucius couldn’t make out Ed’s expression, but each wince of pain as he swallowed and occasional shake of his arm that forced him to stop eating until the tremor passed is now etched into Lucius’ memory forever.

And that wasn’t even the worst of Mr Boles’ crimes Lucius had observed and catalogued.

He can’t admit to any of that here though, so he makes an attempt at a light-hearted smile as he explains –

“I don’t mean to judge, but your deception wasn’t very convincing.”

A soft chuckle breaks free from Ed’s lips, leaving an easy smile in its wake.

“No I suppose it wasn’t.” He shrugs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to lie about something like that,” he continues, so casual about his scarred past. It makes Lucius start rubbing at the inside of his fingers, hoping that might curb his eagerness to reach forward, to remind Ed that a touch can be gentle too. “I guess I panicked, heh!”

While Ed is grinning and happy again, Lucius can feel sadness tugging at the smile he attempts to make in return.

“Why lie at all?” he asks. Quiet, so Ed won’t mistake the query for accusation. “We’re friends, Ed. You know you can be honest with me.”

Ed’s smile grows tight.

“He told me to,” he answers. “If I didn’t he threatened to –” He cuts off and sucks in his lips. “Well let’s just say he made a compelling argument for why I should grant his request.” He turns his gaze to his shirt sleeves, twisting and flattening the black and white fabric over his wrists as he continues. “I wanted to send a message. Spare you the confrontation. But he insisted I inform you in person. He thought if you didn’t hear from me face-to-face you might start causing trouble trying to find out what was wrong.” Ed stops the adjustment of his sleeves, one side of his mouth flicking back up. “Ironic really.”

Ironic indeed, Lucius thinks, biting back a wry smile of his own. Depending on how it was phrased a message was likely to have been far less suspicious. Though it’s oddly satisfying to discover he’d earned the status of trouble maker with the criminally inclined here in the Asylum. With the GCPD in a constant uphill struggle to make any dent in the endless flow of crime and corruption in the city, it’s hard to know if his efforts are truly making a difference. Knowing he’d made at least one criminal uneasy by his actions is almost as gratifying as the man’s arrest had been.

But the rush of pride is brief, because Ed’s explanation is only a fraction of the full story.

“Alright,” Lucius says. “But what about the other times?”

Ed frowns, using his thumb and forefinger to tease out a loose thread.

“I don’t… what other times?”

“Boles has been working here since you arrived, hasn’t he? For a long time before as well I expect. And you said yourself he was ‘hands on.’ Now, maybe he never hit you before, but… this isn’t the first time he’s hurt you, is it?”

Countless grainy black and white images circle behind Lucius’ eyes. There’d been too many to record all of them so he’d had to pick and choose. Boles manhandling inmates into and out of their cells, hands slipping low with the women and gripping unreasonably tight with the men. A constant aggression that Ed had suffered as much as anyone – yanked by the scruff of his neck and thrown through doors; forced into handcuffs for escort that were locked tight enough to make Ed wince with every movement; prodded in the back whenever Boles thought his charge was moving too slow, sometimes hard enough to make Ed stumble and fall to his knees. And on and on, back and back and back for months.

It had shocked Lucius to think Ed had been able to put on a brave face during their visits while enduring such harassment. But as Ed looks up at him now, head tilted in a quizzical slant, and shrugs away Lucius’ question with a casual ‘I… suppose, yes, he’s always been rough’ Lucius sees that the truth is far more complicated.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lucius presses.

“It…” Ed splays his hands across the table, palms up. Seemingly at a loss. “Didn’t seem important. And in any case it wasn’t your problem.”

“Ed…” Lucius trails off, struck dumb by the way Ed is not only dismissive of his own mistreatment but genuinely confused over why it should be a subject of concern. “You’re my friend,” he manages to continue, intimacy winning out over wider concepts of morality and ethics. “Your problems _are_ my problems.”

Ed pulls back as he says this, lips parted, eyes bright with something sharp and indefinable. Something like pain. Or hurt. Lucius can’t make sense of it.

“That’s a wonderful sentiment,” Ed tells him, strangely breathless. “And if circumstances were different I might believe in it. But –” He shakes his head. “Lucius, whatever we are to each other there is still a world of difference between us.” The air between them seems very thin all of a sudden. It’s always striking when Ed uses his actual name, but the ambiguous terminology for their relationship takes the intimacy even further. There’s something much deeper hidden in his words, Lucius is sure of it. “The world I live in isn’t even the _same_ as the one you get to go home to every night,” Ed goes on, hands lifting from the table, then dropping back down, fingers curling and uncurling into his palm. “I’m a criminal. A killer. Here as a prisoner to be punished for my crimes. Whatever happens inside these walls when you’re not here it just – it is what it is. It’s what I’m here for.”

 _It is what it is._ Lucius thinks he sees a glimmer of understanding in that. Ed has always been a touch fatalistic – believing he _had to_ , was _supposed to,_ be The Riddler. It makes sense that even after rejecting that persona he might carry the same mentality into his new situation. Which means it wasn’t bravery per se that saw him submit to Boles’ abuse and he wasn’t actively concealing it from Lucius for purposes noble, ignoble or otherwise. He simply believed it was meant to be.

He was the frog, slowly boiling to death in its pot. So immersed in his own tiny, closed off world he couldn’t see the danger, didn’t understand the harm his sanctuary was starting to inflict. 

“And you’re not – you aren’t –” Ed begins to stammer. “You’re not a part of that. I mean you are, but you’re not.” Ed shakes his head again, or rather jerks it from side to side like he’s trying to dislodge something from within, one hand lifting towards his temple. “Not. Not like that. You weren’t supposed to – you shouldn’t –”

“Ed, stop.”

Damn the rules, Lucius thinks, as Ed’s distress grows more pronounced. The staff here owe him don’t they? The two in this room more than most. So he does what he’s wanted to for weeks and leans forward to take Ed by the hand.

“Ed. Edward,” he continues, drawing both of Ed’s twitching palms to the table and holding them in place. Loosely, in case Ed wants to pull away. But Ed doesn’t. He gasps a little at the touch, then falls still and quiet beneath it.

“Listen to me,” Lucius tells him, quiet but firm, waiting for Ed to meet his eye before continuing. “You’re right, you’re here as a prisoner, to pay for your crimes. But not like that. What Boles was doing, to you, to the others, it was wrong. That’s not justice, it’s cruelty for cruelty’s sake. And it doesn’t matter what you’ve done, you don’t deserve that. No one does.” Lucius wraps his fingers tighter about Ed’s and feels Ed give a light, tentative squeeze back in response, gaze shifting to look over their joined hands. “And don’t forget, this is more than a prison. It’s also medical facility. It’s not about punishment, it’s about rehabilitation. It’s about healing. The people here are supposed to be _helping you_ , not hurting you. You understand that, don’t you?” Ed keeps staring at where their fingers interlock. “Ed?”

“Yeah. Yes. Rehabilitation,” he mutters. “Check.”

“Good.” Lucius nods. “Okay.” He nods again and takes a breath – there’s one last thing he needs to confirm. “Ed, look at me.” Ed does so, a little dazed. “I want you to promise that if anything like that ever happens to you again.” Mid-way between his next breath he adds, in a belated rush – “Or to anyone else here.” He pulls Ed’s hands closer. “You’ll _tell me_. Alright? Promise me.”

Ed blinks at him for a couple of seconds. Then nods.

“I promise.”

In the quiet that follows Ed’s gaze travels back to their hands and he strokes his right thumb over Lucius’ knuckles. The full weight of their daring seems to hit them at the same time and they tense, breath quickening the longer the forbidden touch goes unremarked.

At the door Nina and Diedre stay silent.

“You’re so…” Ed closes his eyes as he searches for the right word, puffing laughter through his nose once he finds it. “ _Good_ , Foxy.” He gives a sigh as his open eyes find Lucius again. “I don’t deserve you, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucius smiles. “But that’s not something you get to decide. Those are the rules.”

This earns a sunshine smile in return that Lucius realises is fast becoming a favourite.

“You know,” Ed starts, circling both thumbs over Lucius’ skin now. “Oswald used to say that he thought Jim Gordon was the last good man in this city.” He stills as he considers the memory. “I imagine his opinion has changed of late,” he goes on, lips quirking to the side. “But he was wrong, regardless. There’s only ever been one truly good man in Gotham. And it was never Jim.” He looks Lucius straight in the eye, his own ones wide and round and more open than Lucius thinks he’s ever seen them. “It’s you.”

Lucius may have walked in proud enough, for once, to accept some of Ed’s extravagant claims about him.

But this is too much.

“No, don’t. Don’t do that,” he answers. “Don’t try and make me more than I am. I’m not some mythical hero. I’m just one man. Trying to do the right thing.”

“Isn’t that _exactly_ what a hero is?” Ed argues. “One good man trying to do what’s right, against impossible odds?” When Lucius opens his mouth to contest this Ed shakes his head and cuts him off, gripping Lucius tighter as he continues. “No. No, you don’t get to tell me I can’t decide what I deserve then refuse to accept what I say you do. You have helped people, Foxy. You’ve done things that have changed people’s lives for the better. That’s not myth, that’s real, that’s _fact_. There are people right here in this facility, in this room, who are safer and happier because of _you_. _I_ am happier because of –” He turns away and licks his lips and Lucius’ heart begins its foolish dance once more. “Fair compromise,” Ed starts again, nodding to himself. “I don’t know everyone in Gotham. Perhaps you’re not the _only_ one as good as you are. But you’re the best there is in my experience. So when I say you’re a hero, that you’re _my_ hero –” His eyes flick back. “If you think it’s a claim I make lightly, then you’re very much mistaken.”

It takes a moment for Lucius to place why the words sound so familiar. Once he does he blushes to recognise the phrasing as his own, touched that Ed would remember.

Unable to contest a rationale of his own making, Lucius answers as Ed had done with him, dropping his head with a small, accepting nod.

“Okay.”

A light cough from the doorway breaks the moment.

It would seem they’ve reached their limit of rule breaking for the week.

Lifting his head Lucius finds Ed nodding thanks to the girls, then he and Lucius lock eyes as they draw their hands away. Slow. Keeping the touch all the way to the tips of their fingers. Such a romantic cliché. But Lucius is too loathe to relinquish the hold to care.

He knows he should be glad they were allowed the moment at all, but as he folds his empty hands to his chest all he feels is the loss. Ed was right about one thing – they are a world apart from each other. The Asylum keeps a barrier between them as sure as the one-way glass in the basement had done the first time they’d found themselves together here. How strange that back then he had wanted nothing more than to widen that distance, while now he craves so badly to breach it.

“Our time must be nearly up,” Ed notes. He rests a hand on the chess box and taps the lid with his fingers. “We didn’t even set up the board.”

“Actually,” Diedre interrupts. “You’ve still got thirty minutes.” Lucius twists in his chair and lifts an eyebrow. “Visiting hours have been extended,” Diedre says in answer to the unasked question. “For good behaviour.”

“Have they?”

The orderlies glance at each other and shrug.

“They have now,” Nina says.

“But, no one at the gate –”

“Foxy,” Ed hisses behind him. “Gift horse. Mouth. Stop looking.”

When Lucius turns back Ed is already unpacking the box.

A fair point, Lucius concedes, and starts to help, lining up his white pieces while Ed finishes arranging his customary black.

As he places his last pawn Ed touches one hand to the side of his glasses to slide them higher up and winces as the metal frames rub his bruised skin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lucius asks, discarding his rook to re-examine Ed’s injury in concern. “Do you need me to bring you some ointment or anything?”

“No. No. I’m fine. Really,” Ed tells him with a dismissive shake of his head.

He settles his final pawn onto its square then stops with his finger and thumb still gripping the top.

“Or. Well. Maybe, actually.” He pinches the pawn harder. “No. No. Nevermind.” He loosens his hold and makes to let go. But while his body pulls back his grip on the chess piece remains and he frowns at his hand as though it’s betrayed him.

“What is it?” Lucius asks, a rumble of laughter escaping with the question at Ed’s reluctance to take up his offer. If he thinks Lucius will somehow think less of him for wanting medical aid he couldn’t be more wrong.

“It’s just…” Ed starts, now actively scowling at the captive pawn. “I could use… some deodorant.”

He mutters it under his breath, like it’s some shameful secret.

“Deodorant?” Lucius repeats, bemusement making him grin. Is that all?

Ed gives an awkward, one shouldered shrug as he looks up, arm still outstretched.

“It’s hard to feel clean in here,” he confesses. “And the uniforms don’t get washed as often as I’d like. It’d be nice to have something to freshen up with in the morning. And not… not the sticky, roll-on kind. That does nothing for me. Something you spray.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“It’s not that easy. Aerosols aren’t allowed here. I shouldn’t –” Ed shakes his head again. “Forget it, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Lucius tells him. “I think, considering my ongoing support of this facility, and your newly acknowledged good behaviour, an exception can be made.” Ed stares at him half over and half through his glasses, eyes wide and uncertain. “I’ll get you some. I promise.”

The breath Ed draws in and sighs out over this, while finally lifting his hand from the chess piece and uttering a breathless ‘thank you,’ seems rather melodramatic. But Lucius is starting to find that the lively, over the top side to Edward Nygma, when not utilised for criminal purpose, is rather enjoyable once you’ve got used to it. And his mother is always telling him he needs to learn to loosen up and have more fun.

So he just shakes his head fondly and returns to his side of the board.

 

* * *

 

An unaccountable, butterflies-in-his-stomach, blushing kind of _giddiness_ pervades Lucius’ next trip to the Asylum.

His visits with Ed have long been a pleasure, but something about this one feels different, feels _more_.

It had started right after he left last week – a growing restlessness the longer he spent away from Ed’s presence. He’d started watching the clock more and more every day, counting down how long until he next got to see the man. The distraction grew so bad that at one point Jim had been forced to seek him out in the lab because Lucius had forgotten to hand in a report. Even Alfred, never one for small talk, had commented that Lucius seemed quieter than normal when he’d stopped by to make some minor adjustments to Bruce’s two-way radio.

And it’s ridiculous. Lucius knows it is.

So he and Ed held hands last week. So what?

So what if Ed said that Lucius made him happy and alluded to an undefined _something_ between them?

What has any of that changed, exactly?

Nothing.

And yet, somehow everything.

This sense of change, of renewal, only intensifies once Lucius checks in at Reception and finds himself directed not to isolation but into the public visiting area, where Ed is waiting with their chess board and a shy smile.

His pieces are, as usual, already set up on the squares before him, positioned as neatly as ever.

All of them white.

It would seem Ed’s good behaviour has been officially endorsed, in more ways than one.

Despite sharing the room with several other inmates and their visitors, the public area actually grants them more privacy than Lucius is used to, since the guards at the door are monitoring the entire room rather than hovering intently over his shoulder alone. But Lucius finds himself more subdued than less by the newfound freedom, tripping over his greeting and falling into tongue-tied silence. He almost misses Nina and Diedre’s familiar presence – since personal security is not required for public visits they’d waved a cheery goodbye after escorting him here and left him outside the door.

Does Ed feel it too? Lucius wonders. The difference? Like a seismic shift – outwardly undetectable but pushing them closer and closer under the surface.

Is that part of the reason he chose to play white this week? Is Ed finally ready to let go of his past and look towards a better, brighter future – embracing a new life, with new ways of thinking? And new relationships?

In any case, Ed seems to share Lucius’ hesitance to talk, murmuring his own quiet ‘hellos’ with a stammer and a blush and quickly starting the game to compensate for his failure.

There’s something electric about this match – each move charging the air, creating a tingle of static every time Lucius reaches for the board. So when Ed reaches in too fast, grabbing his knight before Lucius has finished letting go of his queen, the brush of their hands is like a spark igniting, each of them drawing a sharp intake of breath at the feel of skin on skin.

Standard rules of the Asylum are very much back in play, however, so they can’t linger.

Lucius is the first to pull away and while the loss is as keen as ever, the brevity of the contact is also invigorating and helps him find his tongue at last.

“How’ve you been?”

Not much of an opener, but it gets things moving.

“Good,” Ed nods, still quiet, lips curving.

“Good,” Lucius nods back, his answering smile completely out of control, filling far more of his face than necessary. “Your eye’s healed well,” he adds, noting the now clear skin in place of the injury, its only blemish a healthy flush of pink.

“Yes,” Ed responds, pressing his fingers to the edge of his cheekbone to emphasise the lack of pain there. “Good as new.”

He says it lightly, but the phrasing feels important.

“And you got your deodorant, right?” Lucius goes on. “Feeling fresher this week?”

Ed’s smile dips. Very slightly, almost imperceivable. But Lucius has spent enough time one-on-one with the man to be more aware of the subtleties of his expressions than most. So he notices. And frowns.

“Did you not –?”

“Yes. No. I did,” Ed nods. “I got it. Thank you.”

He sucks on his bottom lip and looks back at the board, arms folding to his chest.

“What’s wrong?”

The gentle butterflies in Lucius’ stomach start to panic.

“Nothing,” Ed tells him and immediately negates the answer by lifting a hand and starting to chew, anxiously, on his thumbnail. “I just…” He draws his hand to the side of his mouth and starts to rub the pad of his thumb rhythmically over his fingertips. “I’ve been thinking…”

When he trails off, Lucius attempts to restore their previous ease by joking –

“Sounds dangerous.”

Ed stills his twitching fingers to shoot Lucius a mock withering look. Lucius knows it’s mocking from the soft twitch at the corner of Ed’s lips and the way his eyes sparkle towards the end.

“Very funny,” Ed says, lowering his arm back to the table. “But seriously. Lucius, you –” His actual name. This _is_ serious. “You do so much for me. And you’re here every week. You haven’t missed a single visit. Even when –” His eyes drop and flick away. “When you had reason to. I just…” He shrugs. “I literally can’t tell you what it means to me. And I can’t help thinking… surely you have better things to do with your time.”

“Better things?” Lucius repeats, panic washing away. Because if this is the reason for Ed’s sudden discomfort then it’s an easy fix. “Ed, in this context ‘better’ is a subjective term. Of course there are other things I could be doing, but I _choose_ to be here. I _like_ visiting you. I wouldn’t come if I didn’t.”

“But that’s not true, is it?” Ed counters, turning back with a frown. “Because you’re an honourable man. The kind of man who always keeps his word. And you made me a promise.”

That breakfast feels like a lifetime ago, though Lucius remembers it like yesterday. Taking Ed’s hands and promising to visit if he turned himself in. It had been a bargain, a bribe, as much as anything back then – whatever it took to get Ed off the streets and to the care he needed. How could he have known what it would lead to? Or how badly he’d wish he’d savoured that touch, and all the others they’d shared, while he still had the chance?

“And I hate to think of you,” Ed is continuing. “Forcing yourself here, week after week, out of some _compulsion_ to –”

“Then don’t think it,” Lucius interrupts, voice firm and brooking no argument. “Not for a second.” Ed stares at him, lips parted. “I’m not here to fulfil some moral obligation. This isn’t a duty or a chore. Even if it did start out that way, which is a vast oversimplification, you’ve become so much more than –” Lucius snaps his mouth shut. He’s getting ahead of himself. “I’ve… really appreciated getting to know you these past months,” he starts again. “Spending time with you is – it’s the highlight of my week. Truly. And if you weren’t in here I would still want that. Because I value your company. And I care about you.” Oh boy, he’s getting saccharine now. Time to wrap this up. “And besides.” He coughs, forcing a more jovial tone. “Who else is there capable of actually _listening to_ and _understanding_ me when I start gushing about the latest research in particle physics?”

Lucius attempts a casual shrug and smile that ends up feeling awkward and slightly manic, making him wish they _were_ talking about particle physics. That would probably be easier.

Fortunately, the reference to one of their habitual topics of conversation during chess matches seems to provide the reassurance Ed needs to relax, shoulders dropping, tense stare melting into warm, bright-eyed, beaming relief.

Or perhaps it was the other stuff. It’s hard to say.

“I still can’t believe Star Labs never invited you to be part of the team on that project,” Ed tells him, picking up where they’d last left off on the topic. “You know the science better than half the people they’ve got working on that machine.”

“Oh hush.” Lucius shakes his head, blushing at the compliment. “They’ve got some of the world’s greatest minds in that lab, they’ll be fine. In any case, even if they asked, I’d only turn them down. Reading about the research, the potential scientific breakthroughs a project like that could make, is exciting. But… it just doesn’t feel like the right fit for me.”

“Nothing beats the glitz and glamour of Gotham City, huh?” Ed chuckles.

“Or the people here,” Lucius can’t resist adding, but hurries on when Ed’s eyes grow soft at the comment, threatening to draw them back to the awkward, emotional state they’ve only just managed to escape. “Plus, with a project like that, no doubt I’d be stuck as part of the think tank. Helping with designs, schematics, that kind of thing. I’d probably never lay a finger on the machine myself. And I… I like getting my hands dirty, you know? In the early days at Wayne Enterprises I was actively involved in a lot of the projects they were funding. I’d help out in the labs – build prototypes, program software.” The memories make him wistful, gaze drifting to the distance. “I miss that, working with my hands.”

“I miss your hands too,” Ed says, low and under his breath, and Lucius snaps his focus right back to him.

At the movement Ed presses a curled finger to his lips, eyes growing wide, as though until then he’d been wholly unaware he was speaking aloud.

“I mean…” Ed adds, shaping his hand into a loose fist beneath his chin. “Um…”

He swallows, failing to provide an explanation for his comment beyond the obvious, and Lucius ducks his head to try and hide a growing, prideful grin.

It’s not as if Ed hasn’t made suggestive remarks before, but the fact this one was unintended makes the desire behind it seem stronger. More real.

With that in mind, Lucius takes the hands in question and slowly links his fingers together in front of the chess board. He glances up through his lashes once he’s done in time to catch Ed licking his lips, fixated on the gesture. And it’s not a quick flick of his tongue either, it’s a full, sensuous circle.

Their eyes meet for a second and the moment burns.

Then Ed sucks in a breath and with a fast grin and shake of his head he breaks the spell. But it’s a warm, happy release, both of them relaxing with a puff of laughter.

“What would we do?” Ed asks into the quiet. “If our time together was not constrained to these walls?”

“Um…” Lucius hums, cheeks and neck still hot from the implications of their previous exchange.

Gripping the frames of his right lens between thumb and forefinger, Ed adjusts and readjusts his glasses. To cover the lingering blush of his own perhaps.

“Pick your mind out of the gutter, Foxy,” he grins. “I don’t mean _that_. You said you value my company so, if we had the freedom of the city, how would you like us to spend it together?”

“I… you know, I don’t know,” Lucius confesses. “I hadn’t got round to contemplating specifics.” Or hadn’t dared to let himself more likely. “I guess… I’d be happy with more of this.” He unlocks his fingers to wave a hand over the board. “Chess and talking and just… you and me together.”

Ed rolls his eyes. Albeit fondly.

“Sweet,” he concedes. “But tame. That’s really the best you can come up with? You wouldn’t like to go to the pictures? Spend a night on the town? Take me dancing?”

Cinema trips have rather lost their appeal these last few years, but this isn’t the time to get into that, so Lucius just laughs and says –

“Dancing? God no. I don’t dance.”

“What?” Ed exclaims, opening his lips wide and pressing a hand to his chest, faux scandalised.

“Two left feet. Sorry.”

“Honestly Foxy.” Ed shakes his head. “You don’t cook. You can’t dance. You’re lucky I like a challenge because most people would write you off as a lost cause.”

“Hey, I never claimed to be an _eligible_ bachelor.”

“But no dancing at all?” Ed presses, eyes glinting with mischief. “Not even the _fox_ trot?” he finishes, smug over his successful execution of the pun. 

Lucius groans. Should have seen that one coming.

“No,” he grins. “Not even that. Shocking as it might seem, not everyone has hobbies that compliment their name, Mr _E.Nygma_.”

This address makes Ed’s face light up impossibly brighter.

“Ha! You noticed!” He claps his hands together in glee. Then lowers them quickly back to the table and coughs. “I mean –” He goes on, attempting, with a comical lack of success, to hide the extent of his excitement behind a one-shouldered shrug. “Of course you noticed, you’re not stupid. It’s just… most people don’t.”

“Well, I’m not most people, am I?”

Apparently Ed finds this throw away response worthy of deeper reflection, because he pauses to scan Lucius’ face, smile calming to something quieter. Thoughtful, but no less affectionate.

“No,” he says, pinning Lucius with that all encompassing intensity of his that used to be unnerving, but now sends a thrill running up and down Lucius’ spine. “You’re not.”

The heat of Ed’s attention finally grows so that Lucius is forced to break the contact, cheeks flush again as he directs his smile to his hands. God it’s like being back at high school – hiding his face from a crush so they don’t catch him mooning over them.  

“It’s Nashton.”

The words tumble out of Ed like an answer on a game show, rushed and breathless and desperate to be heard before the timer runs down. Still flustered, it takes Lucius a moment to register what’s been said, although it means little to him once he has and his eyebrows fold down as he tries to puzzle out the meaning.

“I’m sorry?” Lucius shrugs up at his friend, conceding defeat.

“My name,” Ed explains, just as fast, and something like panic flashes in the wide circles of his eyes. “My real name,” he persists, hands locking together over the table. “Edward Nashton.”

The confession is so unexpected, for Ed as much as himself from the looks of it, that Lucius doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth but finds nothing but silence. Meanwhile Ed braces at the edge of his seat.

When whatever fears he’s been labouring under go unrealised Ed coughs out a bout of laughter and relaxes against the back of his chair.

“You didn’t really think my family name was Nygma, did you?” he chuckles, making a dizzy leap from fearing the truth to joking about it. One of his favoured emotional defences, Lucius recognises – making light of something as a way of giving himself control over it.

A name change is hardly dire, so Lucius plays along, matching Ed’s quirky, one-sided smile with one of his own.

“I admit it seemed unlikely. But, well.” He lifts a shoulder. “This is Gotham.”

“Heh heh. That’s true.”

They share that look unique to natives of the city – a mutual understanding that no matter who you are or what walk of life you hail from, life in Gotham is a weird and wild experience for everyone.

The banter seems to restore Ed’s calm because the rest of his tension dissipates, hands easing apart to lie flat across the table.

“I changed it right out of high school,” he goes on, voice steady now. “I wanted to…” He swallows. “I wanted to put as much distance between myself and my father as possible.”

Lucius nods.

“That makes sense.”

Ed’s smile wobbles a bit, eyes shining with gratitude far deeper than Lucius would have imagined from such casual validation. 

“I spent _hours_ trying to decide what it should be,” Ed continues, gazing through Lucius and beyond. Back to his youthful self, Lucius supposes. “I must have tried out a thousand different signatures. Practically paced a hole in my bedroom carpet as I packed. If my father hadn’t been passed out at the time he would have –” He stops, blinking back to the present. “In the end, I couldn’t resist the conceit.” The laughter infused in this admission is surprisingly easy and warm considering it’s directed at himself. It’s rare Ed feels comfortable enough for that. “I submitted the paperwork en route next morning. When I signed in at Gotham Academy I was officially Edward Nygma.” He catches Lucius’ eye. “You _were right_ , you know. It sounds kind of funny without my initial.”

Funny? When did – oh yes, in the gas chamber. ‘A funny kind of name’ was what Lucius had described Ed as having when he was trying to match the voice to the man. And Ed had taken offense.

Lucius suspects that, at the time, Ed had meant ‘foxy’ as a mocking jibe at his own name in return.

“I wasn’t trying to be derogatory,” he says now. “The truth is, funny or not – it suits you.”

It strikes Lucius again how far they’ve come from that chamber to here – from swapping insults to trading compliments.

This time it’s Ed who breaks eye contact, folding in his lips as he looks down to try and temper his joy. He actually strains against his smile a couple of times before he finally admits defeat and surrenders.

“I’ve, uh… I’ve never told anyone that before…” A small crease appears at the centre of his forehead. “No one.” The crease grows. “Not even Oswald. Not even…”

He trails off, leaving Lucius to ponder who else other than Penguin Ed valued high enough to be perturbed at his lack of honesty with. The ill-fated Miss Kringle perhaps. Or the mystery lover Cobblepot had killed.

His heart soars in any case to know that of all of them he alone was singled out for this truth. It’s intoxicating to think about – that he’s the only one who’s ever been given this chance to see behind the curtain. The only one who knows the real Ed beneath all his layers upon layers of façade.

But while knowing the truth is an easy thing for Lucius to embrace, relinquishing it seems harder for Ed, who is slowly but surely losing his smile. Lucius wishes he could brush his fingers over the anxious lines darkening the corners of the other man’s eyes and calm his fears without resorting to inadequate words. But needs must.

“Don’t worry,” Lucius says, leaning closer across the board, to offer some semblance of intimacy at least. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

And when Ed blinks his clouded eyes up and over, Lucius can only hope he understands the true meaning of his words.

Y _ou’re_ safe. You’re safe with me.

Ed doesn’t answer, but seeing his face clear again is enough.

“So.” Lucius leans back, reaching for a change in subject to clear the air as well. “What would you want to do? If we were somewhere other than here?"

It’s the perfect question, lighting Ed’s eyes with the thrill of a thousand possibilities.

“Oh –” He pushes the bridge of his glasses to follow the upward path of his gaze as he ponders. “So many things, Foxy.” Ed wets his lips, eyes making slight movements side to side as though scanning a list. “But you know… you know what I’d really like?”

Lucius waits expectantly.

“I would _love_ to take you to a funfair.”

Lucius blinks.

“A funfair?”

“Yes!”

“…huh.”

Ed’s toothy grin starts to falter.

“What?”

“No, nothing,” Lucius insists. “I just… I didn’t picture you as one for clowns.”

“ _What?_ ” Ed repeats, shorter and sharper. “No,” he adds, just as snappy. “Clowns are stupid. Literally. That’s their whole…” He circles a hand. “ _Thing_. They act stupid and we’re supposed to find that amusing. I mean, where’s the depth, the range, the nuance to the performance? No, I am not one for clowns.” He gives a dismissive sniff at the very idea. “You misunderstand. I didn’t say _circus_ , I said funfair.”

“Okay,” Lucius chuckles. “There’s a difference?”

Ed throws up his arms.

“There’s a huge difference,” he exclaims, framing both hands either side of his face. “The funfair is the part _outside_ the big tent? With the stalls and the rides –” Grinning once more, he curls in the fingers of one hand and rubs the other over his knuckles as he makes his description. “And the _games_. Hoopla, test your strength, shoot the barrel. Sometimes there are magicians walking round too maybe.”

“I see,” Lucius smiles, understanding the appeal now. All the things Ed mentions require you to be an active participant, your level of enjoyment tied to how much of your intellect you choose to engage.

He has a flash of Ed watching magic tricks as a child, mind cataloguing every minute detail until he had each step figured out. How many street magicians had he heckled, Lucius wonders, with smug, precocious explanations of how the trick was done? 

“All the games are rigged of course,” Ed goes on, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Run by greedy owners who like to exploit excitable children and innocent young lovers. But –” He frees a hand to point a finger skyward. “Once you figure out how, you can circumvent the handicaps. Keep a magnet up your sleeve to make sure hoops and horseshoes fly in the right direction. Find the secret button on the test your strength machine that changes the amount of pressure it requires. Readjust the pressure valve on the water pistols. If you’re smart you could be a winner every time.”

“By cheating, you mean?”

The accusation is meant with affection, lightly mocking at best with laughter softening the words, but Ed jerks up in response, expression stony, back straight.

“It’s not cheating,” he snaps, a cold, hard edge caging the words, clasped hands drawn to his chest across the table in a stance both defensive and tense for action. “It’s _ingenuity_. And besides, if they’re conning you first then cheating them back is _justice_ not a crime.”

Lucius lifts his hands in surrender. Why the ethics of fairground games should be so important to Ed he can’t fathom, but having no strong feelings on the matter himself it’s nothing worth fighting over. Adhering to rules may be a principle Lucius supports in general, but his experience of both large and small scale corruption has taught him that a degree of flexibility may be required depending on the context. The occasional minor rule breaking at a funfair seems relatively harmless.

“Fair point,” he concedes and Ed relaxes. “So. You want to win me a prize at a funfair, huh?”

A raised eyebrow and quirk of his lips is all it takes to restore warmth to Ed’s expression, Lucius’ smile tugging the other man’s lips up as well.

“I would win you _all_ the prizes, Foxy,” Ed grins, leaning closer. “Whatever you want.” His teeth press down on his bottom lip, eyes shining with more ideas. “And we’d eat cheap hotdogs and too much cotton candy and ride the Ferris wheel.” He pauses to reconsider. “Maybe not in that order.”

“You know cotton candy is literally just sugar, right? It has no nutritional value whatsoever.”

“I know!” Ed beams. “Isn’t it great?”

A fresh laugh hums in the back of Lucius’ throat and the sound stops Ed’s imaginings. He looks more closely at Lucius’ face.

“You think it’s silly,” he says. A statement not an accusation. One that dulls the light in his eyes in a way Lucius cannot sanction.

“Not at all,” Lucius insists. “I think it’s sweet.”

Ed positively glows at the compliment and Lucius pictures him, pictures _them_ , surrounded by the bustle of a fair. No criminal schemes, no responsibilities weighing them down, just carefree fun and laughter.

“Ed, I would _love_ to go to a funfair with you,” he says and he can’t recall the last time he meant anything, wanted anything, quite so much.

As if this admission were itself one of the imagined fairground prizes, Ed settles back into his chair with a happy, satisfied sigh. Glad enough to know that Lucius would be willing and not thinking to press for more. A quiet humility that makes Lucius, on the contrary, more ambitious.

“So let’s do it,” Lucius says, punctuating the announcement with a firm nod. “When you get out of here, we’ll go.” And since he’s already flush with the boldness of the promise he dares to add – “It’s a date.”

Two pretty spots of pink colour Ed’s cheeks.

Then he shakes and drops his head.

“ _When_ I get out of here…” he mutters. “You really believe I can see this through?”

“I know you can,” Lucius tells him, unwavering, even when Ed shoots him a clouded, near anguished look in response. “You need to have a little more faith in yourself,” he goes on. “You’re doing really well. You’re out of isolation already aren’t you? I think there’s a good chance you’ll be up for early parole and once you’re out of here the rest of your sentence will be over before you know it.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Ed jokes, but Lucius senses something deeper behind the light-hearted dismissal.

“Not easy, no,” Lucius answers. “But then, the best things in life never are.” There’s a flash in Ed’s eyes. Hope, Lucius thinks. “Let’s say more – achievable. And Ed don’t forget, if anything ever gets too much, or too difficult for you alone, I’m here. You don’t have to face any of this by yourself. Not anymore.”

For a slow, sober couple of seconds Ed holds his gaze, then breaks off and develops a new fascination with his white knight, rubbing a fingertip down the horse’s nose and up again. He smiles softly to himself.

“My hero…”

For once Lucius doesn’t protest. Because today is a Good Day. A day of change. Of hope. Of new beginnings. Today the future looks brighter than it has for Lucius in a long, long time and he has Ed to thank for that. So if it’s really what Ed wants then Lucius will be a hero for him. Today. And tomorrow. And the next day. And for as long as Ed needs him to be.

Starting with putting an end to this moment before the sincerity of it grows suffocating.

“And now,” Lucius begins. “I believe it’s your move.”

Ed pushes his knight so it balances precariously on the edge of its base. Then drags it back into position.

He nods up at Lucius as he lifts his finger away.

“I believe it is,” he agrees, holding his hand above the board as he prepares to make his decision.

 

* * *

 

"Alvarez!" Harvey bellows from the railing opposite the Captain’s office, startling the few civilians in the bullpen out of their statements. In contrast, the officers don’t react at all, not even to flinch. Well, besides Alvarez himself who lifts his head in answer to the summons. All of them, even the new recruits, are already more than accustomed to Detective Bullock’s less than dulcet tones. "Where are we with those witness statements on the jewellery store heist?"

Alvarez picks up the open file on his desk and wafts it in Harvey's direction.

"Just finishing up with them now," he yells back.

"Well get a move on! I need them on my desk ten minutes ago."

If Alvarez objects to the surliness of the demand he doesn't show it, only nods and bends back over his papers, sorting through them a touch faster.

Meanwhile Harvey turns to the jungle of paperwork on his own desk and continues to shout, albeit in no specific direction this time.

"And where's that bloodwork on the domestic homicide I asked for?!"

"Right here," Lucius answers, trying not to smile at the way Harvey jumps on finding Lucius ready and waiting at his shoulder, file held out for him. "Blood pattern points to the son, like you suspected," Lucius adds.

The claim is a little more complimentary than necessary. A vague comment about the boy’s eyes being ‘uncomfortably beady’ hardly constituted a suspicion. But it's been a stressful morning for Harvey with five different cases thrust on him at once practically as soon as he walked through the door, so it seems only right Lucius should brighten his colleague’s day where he can. Especially when Lucius' time with Ed has left him full to bursting with the kind of happiness nothing has been able to dampen yet - not the angry driver who's horn had made him drop his morning coffee; not the gruesome scenes he'd been required examine in detail those first few hours; not even the extra work and shortened deadlines the morning crime wave had burdened him with.

It wouldn't be fair to keep such a good mood all to himself.

“Ha!” Harvey barks as he takes the file, beard shuffling about his face to make room for his smile. “Bout time something went our way.” He pokes the edge of the paper at Lucius’ chest. “Good work. I’ll get a uniform to bring the bastard in this afternoon.”

“Anything else I can help with?” Lucius asks as Harvey shoves a bunch of papers to one side to make room for the new addition.

“Nah, not right now. Thanks Lucius.”

“Well, if you need me you know where I am.”

“Sure. Sure.”

Harvey gives a distracted wave while he lunges for a pile of reports making an enthusiastic bid for freedom over the corner of the desk. Remarkably, only a single sheet of paper escapes capture and flutters to the ground. Lucius picks it up while Harvey thumps the others back down and wrestles them into a more secure position.

He’s not trying to pry, but Lucius can’t help catching a little of what’s printed on the page. It seems to be a criminal record – a list of someone’s crimes, their last known address, family and so on. There’s also a black and white picture in the top right hand corner of a nervous, thin faced man with large glasses and a strong receding hairline. His mouth is oddly slack, folded down but not, Lucius thinks, out of choice. It reminds him of some of the homicide victims he’s had to examine since joining the precinct – ones whose teeth have been smashed in or removed to avoid identification via dental records.

“Here you go.” Lucius quiets his curiosity by returning the paper.

“Thanks,” Harvey mutters, slipping the page haphazardly somewhere in the top of the stack of folders while Lucius gives a final smile and nod goodbye.

He’s just reached the top of the staircase leading down from the dais when Harvey calls him back.

“Hey, Lucius.” Keeping hold of the handrail, Lucius glances over his shoulder and lifts an eyebrow. “What’s got you so chipper today anyhow?” Harvey asks, narrowing his eyes. “You get laid last night or something?”

The truth is to the contrary, obviously, but the question reminds Lucius of Ed’s fixation with his hands, and the different uses he’d imagined for them once he was home and in bed during the night in question. The resulting blush keeps him from answering and his silence leads Harvey to his own conclusions.

“Oh my god, you _did!_ Ha! So our golden boy gets down and dirty just like the rest of us.” With that all of Harvey’s pressing duties are forgotten and he swings the chair at his desk around and plops into it. “Okay, I’m gonna need details.” He taps a new finger to his palm for each item on his list. “Name. Hair colour. Bra size. And most importantly –” He leans forward. “Does she have a sister?”

It’s a struggle to know where to start with the number of misconceptions involved in Harvey’s request and fortunately Lucius is spared the effort because at that moment Jim Gordon bursts out of the Captain’s office and rushes between them.

“Alvarez!” he yells over the railing and once again the unlucky civilians in residence jump at the unexpected command. Meanwhile, Alvarez sighs over his still unfinished paperwork and lifts his head. “I need you to stop whatever you’re doing and put together a strike force for immediate deployment.”

“Yes sir!” Alvarez shouts back, leaving his desk without a second look at the file Harvey had given priority only moments before.

While Alvarez busies himself collecting a group of officers to complete his new assignment Harvey jumps up from his seat with a frown and moves to Jim’s side.

“What’s up, boss?” he asks, with just the hint of a sneer on the last word. An unspoken disapproval at having his own instructions overruled.

Ostensibly, Lucius knows, Jim and Harvey have moved passed the unpleasantness surrounding Jim’s promotion. The fact Harvey is clearly more comfortable back as a detective than he ever seemed to be as Captain has surely been of help to both of them when it comes to accepting the new status quo. But the whole business with the Pyg and Sofia Falcone has left a crack in their partnership that will take a long while yet to fully mend and has a tendency to show itself in subtle, and not so subtle, jibes like this.

Jim ignores the tone.

“I just got a call. There’s been a fire at Arkham Asylum,” he says and Lucius’ good mood vanishes. “Or possibly an explosion.” Lucius curls his fingers about the railing, scraping at the wood with his nails. “It’s unclear,” Jim goes on, turning to speak to Harvey face to face. While this shield’s Lucius from the other man’s expression, the sombre tone is telling enough of the severity of the situation. “All I know is half the place is up in flames and the other half is full of panicked, rioting inmates that need to be controlled fast or no one’s getting out of there alive.”

No one’s getting out of there alive.

No one.

It’s hyperbole, surely? Gotham police are distressingly prone to it.

But Lucius struggles to catch his breath regardless.

“Casualties?” Harvey asks, all business now.

“Too early to tell how many wounded, or how badly.” Jim turns away with a sigh. “Only one known fatality so far.”

He frowns, but there’s something about the hardness in his eyes and the lines down his brow that makes it seem like anger more than concern.

“No.” Harvey shakes his head, adopting a similar expression. “No, do _not_ tell me it’s –”

Jim nods.

“Yeah,” he says and despite the fact their reactions don’t fit the name Lucius fears he realises he’s holding his breath for it anyway. “It’s Penn.”

This name means nothing to Lucius, beyond the relief of what it’s not. But this is not true for Harvey, whose face contorts in fury at the revelation.

“ _God damn son of a_ -!”

Too mad to even finish the curse Harvey instead rips off his hat, whorls round and slams it down on the desk, heedless of the papers the resulting breeze carries to the floor.

There’s some part of all this Lucius is missing, because Jim doesn’t bat an eye at Harvey’s fury, only flattens his lips in sympathy. But as far as Lucius is concerned the other men can keep their secrets, there’s only one thing he cares about right now and he can’t keep silent about it any longer.

“What about Edward?” he asks as he pushes off the railing, too distracted to debate whether referring to Ed by his first name is professional or not. “Is he…?” He pauses in front of Jim, suddenly terrified of the myriad of ways to end this question. “Has there been any word about –?”

“God, who even cares?” Harvey mutters at his side, now with both palms gripping the edge of the desk while he leans over it and stares despondently at the bundle of papers he’d rescued from falling earlier.

Fear collides with shock and hurt and incredulity and Lucius dismisses Jim before he can answer to snap at Harvey instead.

“Excuse me?”

“Aaah.” Harvey scratches his beard as he turns, like a dog trying to shake off the mud he’s just waded in. “I’m sorry, Lucius,” he says, drawing the hand from his face and holding it palm out in front of him. “I know Nygma’s been, like, your pet project or whatever these last few weeks. But we got bigger problems than that psychopath right now.”

Lucius doesn’t know what’s worse – the casual insult to Ed’s character, the belittling of their relationship, the way neither of those are something Harvey is even consciously aware of as a problem or the way his softened tone and beseeching eyes suggest Harvey honestly believes himself to be making a valid apology. This, combined with Lucius’ growing distress over Ed’s unknown fate, leaves him the very opposite of the calm Harvey was presumably attempting to facilitate.

“The man may be _dead_ , Harvey!” he snaps again, causing Harvey, and Jim as well Lucius notes in the corner of his eye, to blink back in surprise at the intensity of the rebuke. “Show some compassion.” 

“Compassion?” Harvey scoffs. At first he seems amused, ready to shrug the whole thing off with a laugh. But when Lucius continues to glare Harvey’s almost smile fades and his eyes grow hard. “ _Compassion?_ ” he repeats. “For the man who dangled me over a ten floor stairwell?” He waves a hand in a vague point over the railing, meant as a gesture towards the stairwell in question one assumes, despite the fact the building is situated several blocks away. “Who chopped up his own girlfriend into pieces?” he goes on, voice growing louder with each new crime he identifies. “Who killed over a dozen people without remorse, at least two of them cops?!” He prods a finger at Lucius’ chest. “A man like that doesn’t _deserve_ compassion. Not from anyone, least of all me.”

Any other day, any other time, Lucius might have been willing to accept this. To allow Harvey his hatred, considering what Ed had done to him and the truth of his crimes.

But not today. Not after the turning point between Ed and himself the evening before and with Ed’s very life at risk this morning. Ed is more, far more, than his past mistakes and Lucius _will not allow_ anyone to claim otherwise.

“That’s not fair,” he argues. “Yes, Ed did some terrible things. I know, I was on the receiving end of some of them. But he’s paying for them now, _of his own volition_. And he’s still a human being. One who has been very sick for a very long time.” Lucius remembers how sombre Ed had grown the day he’d apologised and all the others he’d debated contacting to share his regrets. All but James Gordon and Harvey Bullock. And this was precisely why, wasn’t it? Because he knew. He knew they would never listen. Would never be willing to see anything but the worst in him. “Also you’re _wrong_ , by the way. He _is sorry_ for the things he’s done. He _turned himself in_ for god’s sake. He is doing everything he can to try and make things right. If you would only give him a chance he –”

“I don’t give a flying fig what he’s been doing!” Harvey interjects, matching Lucius’ firm but defiant tone and raising it to a full on shouting match. “The man’s a cop-killer. There ain’t no making that right, not in my book. And you know what?” He thrusts his face forward, upper lip curling into a scowl. “I’ll be glad if he _is_ dead. One less problem for us to worry about!”

The brutality of this statement makes Lucius gasp and the fact Jim _doesn’t_ and simply frowns in mild, ineffectual, disapproval at his friend only increases Lucius’ dismay.

“You can’t mean that.”

“Oh can’t I?” Harvey snaps back, folding his arms across his chest, as though Lucius’ words are a challenge he’s already won.

Lucius takes a step back, a lifetime of hiding in plain sight at Wayne Enterprises taking over and telling him to avoid the confrontation, to pick his battles. Because as long as he doesn’t rock the boat, as long as he doesn’t stand out, he’ll remain in a position most capable of effecting long term change. Like Thomas had taught him.

Only Thomas is dead.

And now Ed might be too.

And this is not Wayne Enterprises.

So for the first time in a long time Lucius doesn’t fight the anger rising inside him and lets it flow into tense lines across his face, lets it purse his lips and harden his eyes.

If it’s a challenge Harvey wants Lucius is more than up to it.

“So killing police officers, that’s what crosses the line for you?” he asks, icy calm, despite the thrumming heat beneath his skin.

“What?” Harvey growls, while Jim turns his disapproving frown on Lucius, sensing the change in him perhaps.

“Ed committed a lot of crimes,” Lucius goes on. “But it’s the fact he’s a ‘cop-killer’ that you fixate on. That’s the one thing that’s irredeemable to you.”

“So?” Harvey shrugs. “Are dead cops not important enough for the high and mighty Lucius Fox?”

“I think murder is a heinous crime no matter the victim,” Lucius answers, with a casual glance towards Jim. Just long enough to catch the furrow on Jim’s brow begin to deepen as it dawns on him Lucius might be making a statement with the look, then Lucius is back to facing Harvey. “But I also understand that it’s important to consider the context of a crime before using it to judge someone by. And I believe in forgiveness and rehabilitation for those who truly desire it. So I have to wonder, Harvey, if killing a member of law enforcement is so morally repugnant to you as to not allow for that –” Lucius takes a breath. A subtle build of suspense so when he delivers his final blow it will hit that much harder. “What’s your stance on those who paralyse one?”

The gasp Jim failed to make before escapes him now, his eyes round with shock, but Lucius ignores him.

“I mean, are they also undeserving of a second chance?” Lucius presses, face hot, heart racing. And the physical thrill of it all muffles the pain that flashes over Harvey’s face so it feels like victory, the hurt disconnected from Harvey himself and important only as evidence of Lucius’ authority. “Because –”

“Alright that’s enough.” Jim steps between them, but not as a mediator. It’s Lucius he angles himself towards, one arm outstretched to ward him off, standing in protection of his detective. Of course.

“No,” Harvey counters, tugging at Jim’s shoulder. “No, I wanna hear what he has to say,” he continues, pulling Jim out of his way and stepping forward. His voice is a little shaky now, but soon regains its former strength. “I’m no better than Nygma, is that it? You think I should be in that nut house too? That what I’ve done is tantamount to his multiple counts of murder and theft and kidnapping and god knows what else?”

“I…” Lucius falters as Harvey’s words restore a modicum of reason to his righteous indignation.        

“Go ahead!” Harvey insists. “If that’s what you mean at least have the decency to tell it to me straight.”

Faced with a proper comparison between Harvey and Edward Lucius can only shake his head.

“No,” he mutters, gaze dropping as his fiery rage burns into shame. Dear god, was he really trying to claim the tragic mistake Pyg had led Harvey into with Officer Patel was equivalent to Ed’s wilful, premeditated murder? What was he thinking? “No of course I don’t – that’s not –” That’s not what he meant, he wants to say. But what did he mean, exactly? It’s hard to think through the lingering fog of his anger. “Harvey I –” Although it’s suddenly the very last thing he wants to do, he lifts his head to meet Harvey’s eye. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Harvey snarls at the apology and Lucius doesn’t blame him.

“Damn right you were,” Harvey spits. “You come here from your ivory tower over at Wayne Enterprises –” He circles a hand in front of Lucius then waves it to the side in an approximate point towards Wayne Tower. “All puffed up from leaving your fancy schmancy high flying job because of all the _corruption_ , like you’re this big ethical hero. So you can sit down here –” He jabs his index finger in a couple of emphatic points to the ground. “– all safely tucked up in your lab. And you think that gives you the right to judge the rest of us?”

“No, I don’t –” Lucius tries, voice growing thin and reedy with panic at what he’s started. But Harvey continues over him.

“You have no idea – _no idea_ – what it’s like out on the streets.” Harvey’s breath grows laboured, face flushing red. “It’s a _war_. And we are on the front lines, facing the scum of this city day in, day out. Sure, maybe I haven’t always been a paragon of virtue, but I have given everything – _everything_ –” His voice starts to crack. “– to this job. And for what? So some know-it-all in a suit can walk in here and call _me_ a criminal?”

Harvey takes a step forward, hand raised at the side of his head, and while Lucius doesn’t _really_ think Harvey would hit him he acknowledges the possibility nonetheless and prepares to accept the blow. It seems a fair tit-for-tat.

But Jim intervenes.

“I said that’s enough.” His address is to Harvey this time, one hand pressed against Harvey’s chest, voice soft.

Though Harvey scowls, he accepts the instruction and backs off.

“I need a drink…” he mutters, half turning to his desk. To look for the flask of whiskey he’s been known to keep there no doubt.

“No you don’t,” Jim says, gentle. “You need to suit up and join Alvarez and the rest of the team.”

This distracts Harvey enough to make him abandon his search and shoot Jim a disbelieving look.

“You want me out there?!” he protests. “But I’ve got thousand different cases!”

He waves a hand at his cluttered desk as evidence but Jim shrugs the objection away.

“I’ll deal with your cases,” Jim tells him. “But I need to know I’ve got someone I can _trust_ at Arkham right now.” He leans forward to rest a hand on Harvey’s arm. “Someone who _understands the situation_.”

Jim nods to something on Harvey’s desk and, while Lucius can’t be sure, based on the direction of Harvey’s gaze when he turns to follow the look, it seems like Jim is indicating the same stack of files Harvey had been staring at before their altercation. The ones from which Lucius had retrieved the lost page.

This seems to pacify Harvey because he starts to nod.

“Fine. Fine,” he mutters, grabbing his hat. “I’m on it.”

“Thank you,” Jim says in that deep, heartfelt tone Lucius has seen earn the trust and loyalty of so many, no matter what scandal Jim may have been part of at the time.

Harvey has more reason not to be swayed than most, but even he softens on hearing it, beard twitching in a fleeting smile. Then he stuffs his hat on his head and marches away, deliberately avoiding further eye contact with Lucius but making sure to catch his shoulder, hard, with his own as he moves past.

The pain is nothing and Lucius accepts it as his due, but ending things with Harvey still thinking so badly of him, still _hurting_ because of him, cuts Lucius far deeper. He needs to apologise again. Better. He needs to fix the damage he’s caused.

“Harvey,” he calls, moving to follow the other man down the stairs. “I –”

But a firm hand on his shoulder holds him back.

“Leave him,” Jim says. “He needs some time to cool off.”

Arguments such as this, of the non-academic kind, are far from Lucius’ forte. So when he turns and finds Jim’s expression grim, he sags under the hold and submits to the other man’s wisdom on the matter.

“Maybe you do too,” Jim adds as he lifts his hand.

Lucius drops his head.

“I’m sorry,” he answers. “I don’t – Harvey didn’t deserve that, I don’t know what came over me.” He shuts his eyes and presses against them with a finger and thumb, trying to clear his mind. “I was just… worried I suppose,” he adds, blinking, as he draws his hand away. An explanation not an excuse.

“About Nygma.”

Something about the way Jim says this makes Lucius apprehensive. Does Jim suspect how his relationship with Ed has evolved? Does he _know?_ The man has been a detective for many years, perhaps there’s something in Lucius’ voice or the movement of his eyes giving him away. Not that this would matter, ordinarily. It’s just that now seems an especially inappropriate time to broach the subject.

But if Jim does suspect the way Lucius feels for Ed as something more, or less, than professional he doesn’t show it. His face is impassive when Lucius lifts his to meet it.

“The warden didn’t mention Ed when he called,” Jim tells him. “As soon as I hear something, I’ll let you know.”

Lucius nods.

“Thank you.”

“But Lucius,” Jim adds. “Whatever happens, you need to make things right with Harvey.”

That ‘whatever happens’ unleashes a fresh surge of panic, but Lucius swallows it down.

“Of course.”

Jim turns his gaze over the railing to where Harvey has joined Alvarez, Harper and several others, already armed and in protective vests. Harvey stops a moment before collecting his own gear to speak to the team, issuing instructions while the others nod.

“He’s had a… a rough time of it lately,” Jim goes on, eyes dulling as he watches his friend. “He doesn’t need more hardship right now.” Lucius was right here beside them through that time, so the fact Jim feels the need to explain this is humiliating as much as shameful. He can only nod, mute and a little desperate, when Jim turns back to him. “He _is_ one of the good guys, you know.”

“I know. I know,” Lucius hurries to agree, stumbling over the words in his eagerness for penitence. “And I know how difficult it’s been for him dealing with what happened with Pyg and… and everything…”

Jim gives a weary sigh, shoulders sagging, and grips the back of Harvey’s chair for support.

“More difficult than it should have been,” he says, shaking his head. “And that’s on me. Taking the Captaincy like I did, thinking I was…” He stares into the distance. “Some kind of hero. Someone who knew better how to help the people in this city.” He sighs again and Lucius looks at him, really _looks_ , and notices the dark lines below his eyes and the wrinkles forming around his mouth from frowning too often and too deeply. He looks so much older than his years, the weight of his regrets etched across his skin. “I was too hard on him. If I’d taken more time to _listen_ instead of –”

He blinks himself out of the reminiscence, eyes regaining focus.

“What I’m trying to say is – don’t make the same mistakes I did.” He touches his free hand to Lucius’ shoulder. “You’re a good man, Lucius. The best of us. Don’t let this city break you.”

Not sure how to respond to such praise after his recent conduct, Lucius simply nods again. This seems a satisfactory response because Jim nods back, pats Lucius’ shoulder and pulls away.

Arms folding across his chest Jim turns to Harvey’s collection of paperwork. Ready to begin work on the cases Harvey’s trip to Arkham has left behind. But before Lucius can respond to this unofficial dismissal, Jim adds over his shoulder.

“And maybe… be careful, with Nygma?” He frowns as Lucius meets his eye again, but not in disapproval anymore. It’s more like unease. “He’s a dangerous man.” When Lucius opens his mouth to answer Jim lifts a hand to stop him. “And I know he turned himself in, but even so… Don’t forget, he killed three members of this precinct, framed me for one of them and was working here for _months_ afterwards with none of us any the wiser. Lies and manipulation are his MO. It’s hard to know what about him you can trust.”

It’s a fair argument. Lucius can see Jim means well by it and he’s not wrong – Ed is skilled in the art of deception. It makes sense Jim wouldn’t trust him.

But then, he doesn’t even know the man. Not like Lucius does.

“You don’t think people can change?” Lucius asks, curious not critical. “Learn to better themselves?”

“I do,” Jim answers, very earnest all of a sudden. “I have to believe that we can,” he adds. “Or what hope is there, for any of us?” For a second his face crumbles, overwhelmed by the weight of his past. Then he shakes the anguish away. “But can Edward Nygma change?” he goes on, calm and collected once more. “That’s a different question. One I don’t know the answer to.”

Now his sense of decorum has been restored Lucius is able to nod politely at this, accepting Jim’s scepticism. But internally he’s thinking that no, of course Jim doesn’t know the answer. How can he, when he doesn’t even know ‘Nygma’ isn’t Ed’s real name?

“Captain?”

Both of them start at the voice from the other side of the desk, so absorbed in their conversation they’d failed to notice the young, uniformed officer who must have come up the other set of stairs.

“Yes, O’Hara?” Jim answers and Lucius is impressed he knows the young girl’s name. She’s very new, only her second day if Lucius is remembering correctly, and he has to admit that the new starters’ names are all still a bit of a jumble to him.

“There’s a Mr Dent on the phone for you.”

This comes as no surprise to Jim, who merely tenses his jaw and nods at the news.

“Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Yes sir.”

O’Hara scurries back to one of the phones downstairs to deliver the message, but instead of heading back to his office to take the call Jim pauses to sigh down at the mysterious stack of files that has been causing him and Harvey so much distress.

“Bad news?” Lucius asks.

“Worse,” Jim answers. “I have to give some.” He rubs a hand across his face. “Half an hour ago, Harvey Dent and I were on the verge of a breakthrough for law and order in this city. Now I have to find a way to tell him that our best chance of taking down Penguin for good just went up in flames.”

Lucius frowns. Taking down Penguin? He hadn’t heard of any new attempts at such an endeavour. Since the dramatic fall of Sofia Falcone, Cobblepot had become nigh on untouchable.

Although he doesn’t ask, Jim picks up on Lucius’ curiosity anyway and must conclude that the information is no longer confidential because he goes on to explain –

“The man who died at Arkham, Mr Penn? He was Oswald’s right hand during the ‘Pax Penguina.’ Sofia had him badly tortured during the war and he was in intensive care at Gotham General for months. When he got out he wanted to hit back at the people he held responsible. He was going to testify to all of Oswald’s back room dealings. And he had records to back it up.”

This Mr Penn must be the man from the loose page of Harvey’s files, Lucius realises. Hence why Jim and Harvey were paying them so much attention. Pulling teeth is a common form of torture and would explain the strange shape of the man’s jaw in the picture. But there’s too many elements of this that still don’t add up.

“Testify?” Lucius repeats. “But there’s been no arrest, no news of a trial.”

“To minimise the risk of Oswald finding out what was happening I kept all information on Penn strictly need to know,” Jim answers. “Initially it was just between Harvey and myself. But Penn refused to take the stand or share the location of his files until we made sure his family was safe, so I called in Dent to help us get them into a witness protection program. In the meantime we hid Penn in Arkham under a pseudonym.” His eyes trail back to the papers on the desk. “Confirmation that Penn’s family were safely established in their new identities came through _today_. We were planning to make an arrest tomorrow. Harvey and I were going to brief the other officers this afternoon.”

Wow. That _is_ a blow.

“That’s why Harvey was so upset when you told him who died,” Lucius says. “Without Penn you have no case.”

“Yeah. We put months of work into this. And just like that it’s over.”

Since Jim is being so forthcoming, Lucius decides to try for a little more information. Despite having worked in the place for the better part of two years, he still knows remarkably little about the inner workings of a police department and is always eager to learn.

“Why Arkham?” he asks.

Jim shrugs.

“It’s a locked facility with built in security. Witness protection takes time and eventually resources spent on safe houses risk drawing attention. Plus it seemed unlikely Oswald would think to consider anyone from the Asylum as a threat to him. We figured it was the safest place to keep Penn long term.” Jim flattens his lips. “Apparently we were wrong.”

“Wait,” Lucius says, the slight growl in Jim’s voice hinting at a bigger picture. “You told Harvey you needed someone at Arkham who understood the situation. You suspect foul play?”

“The timing is suspiciously convenient for an accident.”

Very true. But –

“How would Penguin even accomplish something like that? To cause a fire like you described, one that spread through half the facility, you’d need… I don’t know, some type of equipment. And I know how tight security is at the asylum these days. They check _everything_ you take in with you, multiple times. They confiscated one of my pens the other week because it was deemed a potential weapon. I don’t see how Cobblepot could have smuggled in anything, let alone items needed to commit arson.”

Another shrug from Jim.

“Then perhaps he had a man on the inside,” he suggests. “It might explain how he knew Penn was there. But at this point I honestly don’t know. If we can find out how the fire started we might learn more, but right now we’ve got nothing to go on. The warden told me they found one of the inmates raving that she was there when it started. Said she was outside the laundry room, heard a bang and a hiss and suddenly there was a fireball coming out the door with a figure inside it running past her.”

“A bang? Like something mechanical? A bomb?”

“No. She said it…” Jim gives a wry smile, clearly distrustful of the information. “She said it sounded like a balloon popping.”

A balloon?

A paralysing chill trickles up and down Lucius’ spine.

“But she was suffering pretty badly from smoke inhalation. Apparently it was a struggle to get even that much out of her. Mostly she kept raving about smelling hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate?”

The world around Lucius grows muffled, the lights and bustle of the precinct dulled to meaningless white noise until it seems this conversation here and now with Jim is all there is. And even that seems far away from him, his own words so faint Lucius can’t be sure if he’s speaking at all.

It seems his reaction is notable regardless because Jim flashes a curious look.

“That mean something to you?” Jim asks and the world comes back to Lucius in an alarming rush of noise and colour.

“No,” he answers quickly. “No, I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t intended to lie.

He hadn’t intended anything.

But he’s trapped in the deception now and can’t think what to do but carry on with it.

“But I’ve taken up enough of your time, I should let you get on. Besides, I have work to do in the lab. Lots of cases today. And it’ll probably help, to clear my head.”

Is he babbling? It feels like he’s babbling.

“Of course,” Jim nods. “Take care, Lucius,” he adds, reaching across to pat Lucius on the arm before stepping past him to his office. Off to finally take that call with Dent.

The walk back to the lab is a blur Lucius barely remembers.

The next thing he knows for sure he’s stepping into the empty room, clicking the door shut behind him and falling back against it, hard.

There’s several specimens laid out on different counters in the process of being analysed – blood he’s testing for evidence of drugs, suspected murder weapons that need dusting for prints. But Lucius doesn’t see any of it.

All he sees is Ed, smiling, as he unwraps a package in green paper. Ed with his fingers around a mug of steaming chocolate. A balloon on a string bobbing behind him. Sachets of coco power stashed away in their container. ‘For later’ he’d said. But they hadn’t shared any since.

A man on the inside.

No. No. This is insane. Ed had no reason. He wouldn’t. Not for Cobblepot – the two of them hated each other.

Didn’t they?

And anyway, it’s not enough.

Unless.

He’d made such a fuss about the deodorant. Insisting on an aerosol.

It’s possible. If he’d timed things exactly right.

Lucius shuts his eyes, screwing them up tight in the hope it will blot out the whole idea, banish all the damning memories. But all it does is overlay them with brighter ones, each progressively more tainted. Ed’s hands, warm and gentle, in his own. Ed straight backed, staring him in the eye and telling him he’s sorry. Ed with his head in his hands lamenting his feelings for his father. Ed wide eyed with shock and awe over Lucius’ empathy for his intellectual anguish. Ed pushing an origami fox across the table with a nervous grin.

When he opens his eyes again that fox is the first thing Lucius narrows in on.

It’s a communal area, technically, so he doesn’t have a desk as such in the lab. But since he’s the only one here more often than not and the other lab techs don’t seem to mind he’s collected a few personal items about the computer – a small picture of himself and his family; a stack of scientific journals for him to peruse in his down time; a mug with ‘thank you’ written on it in binary code that Bruce had gifted him after he’d fixed Thomas’ computer. And the paper fox Ed had given him, stuck on the top corner of the screen.

Lucius doesn’t consider himself a frivolous man. He’s not one to keep anything without purpose. But although Ed’s gift had no practical value he hadn’t wanted to throw it away, and it seemed unfair to hide it safe in a drawer somewhere where it risked being forgotten. Attaching it to the computer had been a temporary solution, but he’d come to appreciate the cheeky face looking down on him as he worked. It provided much needed respite from hours that were all too often long and gruelling.

Now the pointed nose and diamond eyes seem sharp and mocking and in a fit of mania, full of more emotions than Lucius can even begin to untangle, he dashes over and crumples the paper up in his hands.

His remorse is instantaneous.

Because if he’s wrong then he’s just destroyed something far more precious than paper. This fox represented Ed’s first, honest attempt to connect to him _as a person_ and not a game or a pawn or a saviour. Even if Ed makes another it can never recapture the sentimental significance of every meticulous, lightly crumpled fold of this one.

Breathing deep, Lucius opens his hands to assess the damage. Perhaps it’s not irreversible.

The fox is crushed beyond all recognition. But it doesn’t look torn. If he can pull it apart carefully enough to identify the places Ed had moulded it Lucius thinks he might be able to restore the creature to what it was.

Glad to have something concrete to focus his mind, Lucius lifts the paper to the light and starts to ease the red and white edges apart.

Then stops and squints.

With the underside of what was once the body now exposed Lucius notices some kind of design that wasn’t visible before. Curved lines and shapes and – no, letters. There’s something written there.

Abandoning his attempt to save the animal, Lucius unravels the paper and flattens it to reveal the message, written in Ed’s neat, flamboyant cursive.

He reads it through. Then reads it again. And once more to be sure, swallowing back the rising tide of his former turmoil as his suspicions are finally confirmed.

“Oh god, Edward,” he chokes. “What have you done?”

 

* * *

 

The worst part of knowing the truth was the _relief_ that came with it.

Because it meant Lucius now knew for certain that Ed was still alive. And his stubborn heart was glad of that, regardless of the rest. _Glad_. Of a _betrayal_.

The dilemma of what to tell, or not to tell, was a weight on his shoulders also. One that had proven too much to bear on top of the pain of having to reassess everything he and Ed had built together these past months. So he’d taken the coward’s path and avoided the issue, isolating himself in the lab for the rest of the day. Easy enough with the workload as it was.

Jim, harried from debriefing the strike team on their return from Arkham and organising cover for all the untended cases, did catch Lucius as he was leaving to give a breathless update on Ed’s whereabouts as promised. Which was nothing Lucius hadn’t already surmised – not among the dead or injured but as of yet unaccounted for. Then Jim had been called back by a query from Harper and Lucius was absolved of having to answer.

Not that he isn’t fully aware that silence is itself a choice. A lie by omission. But he’ll deal with that tomorrow.

After whatever comes next.

Because there will be a ‘next.’ Ed won’t just slink off into the night, Lucius knows him better than that. Whatever there is between them isn’t finished, not until Ed makes his final bow.

Which is why he’s not surprised when he unlocks his apartment and finds his chess board laid out mid-game on the kitchen table.

Meanwhile, the far side of the door harbours an ill concealed presence. Waiting in the wings to make a spectacle of his reveal.

Lucius could spoil the show – shut the door and meet him head on. But despite steeling himself through the walk over he’s not ready yet to face the man. So he takes the bait and moves to the board.

A quick glance tells him the fictitious match has reached an endgame scenario.

He assumes black will be winning. Symbolic of Ed’s real life criminal triumph. But closer inspection proves him wrong. The number and position of the pieces make it impossible for a black victory. Or for white. There’s no way forward for either side.

It’s a stalemate.

With no sound behind him forthcoming Lucius decides he might as well settle in while he waits. So he stuffs his gloves in his pockets, removes his coat and drapes it over one of his kitchen chairs. Then, with slow, precise movements, he unbuttons his shirt cuffs and rolls up his sleeves, taking care to match each twist of fabric on his second arm exactly to the ones on his first. If it’s a show Ed wants then he’ll give him one. As tedious and mundane as he can made it.

Sleeves dealt with to his satisfaction Lucius stoops down to assess the game from a different angle and takes his time examining each chessman in turn. Until he hears a click and a click behind him.

His door closing. And something else. Something rather more disheartening.

“I made sure to save it when I left,” Ed tells him. His voice is crisp and even with no hint of impatience at the underwhelming reaction to his chess scene. “I know how much it means to you,” he adds as Lucius straightens up.

And that’s the rub, isn’t it? Ed does know. He knows Lucius better than anyone. The chosen pieces for his tableaux prove that – the black knight is the one with the damaged back Lucius had tried to ‘shave’ when he was seven and the white pawn is discoloured from when he’d hidden it in his brother’s milkshake when he was nine. Several others also contain childhood deformities. Everything about the scene is designed to invoke private memories. Or flaunt how many Ed has extracted from him.

“You expect me to be grateful?” Lucius answers without turning.

Footsteps shuffle behind him.

“I don’t expect you to be anything,” Ed says, closer now.

Lucius still isn’t ready, but that’s unlikely to change anytime soon so he turns anyway. And is assaulted by a shock of green and black.

It can’t be Ed’s old suit and hat, Lucius had disposed of what Ed had left behind the night he trashed the apartment and the rest had been incinerated at the asylum, in accordance with their new Health and Safety regulations. The ensemble is also perfectly tailored, so he can’t have acquired it today. He must have had it stashed somewhere, waiting for him. Even while he trembled away from the costume that night Lucius had found him. For security, perhaps. Like a recovering addict keeps a bag of drugs or bottle of alcohol, their resistance improved by knowing the source of their craving was accessible if necessary. A dangerous tactic. And one that had failed in this instance, clearly.

“Actually,” Ed goes on, lifting the gun in his hand a few inches higher, aim shifting from heart to head. Lucius doesn’t flinch. He’d guessed that second click was the cocking of a weapon. “I have no idea how you’re going to react,” Ed confesses. “So you understand why I need to take precautions.” Eyes fixed on Lucius, he nods to the gun. “Can’t have you getting any crazy ideas about calling the cops on me. Not until I’ve had a chance to explain.”

So that’s the play? He’ll offer some new sob story to excuse his actions, hoping to provoke enough sympathy to keep Lucius on side?

No. Not this time.

“You don’t have to,” Lucius tells him. He means it to deflate Ed – to deny him his performance. But Ed finds a different meaning, one that makes the corner of his lips flicker upwards, eyes soft. “I already know,” Lucius goes on and this comes closer to his desired effect, seeing Ed tilt his head, lines etching across his brow. “You see, I have something of yours to return as well.” He reaches for the inner pocket of his jacket. Slowly, with his other hand raised, palm exposed. Mindful of the gun. “I eat, I live. I breathe, I live,” he recites as he draws out the paper inside. “I drink, I die. What am I?” Ed’s face clears. “Fire,” Lucius answers, revealing the deconstructed fox, its red and white colouring transfigured into brilliant flame, as though burning up all trace of the creature it once was from the inside out.

Ed stares at the paper, lips folded together. Solemn as a mourner at a funeral.

Then he blinks and he’s beaming, eyes bright with familiar, inflated enthusiasm.

“Translated from ancient Sumerian,” he grins. “Some credit it as the first recorded riddle in human existence. Bravo. I’d say ‘better late than never’ but, well.” He shrugs. “Time was a pretty big factor here, Foxy. I’m afraid you’re just too late.”

Too late in spotting the danger. Just like he had been with Thomas and Martha. Just like he always seems to be with Bruce. Always too many steps behind.

“Yes,” Lucius answers, his voice a careful monotone. “You’re right.” Without shifting his gaze he sets the paper down on the chess board, colour side up. No need to display the riddle written on the reverse, they both remember it. “Almost three months I’ve had this. Thirteen weeks. Ninety-one days. That’s how long you’ve been working on this plan. How long you’ve been playing me.”

The truth is scolding to voice aloud, but when Ed parts his lips to take over the telling Lucius doesn’t let him. Painful as it is confessing how well Ed had exploited him, having Ed gloat about it would be infinitely worse. He folds his arms as he continues, hoping the authoritative gesture will hide the hollowness inside him.

“I assume that’s when Penguin recruited you.” It would have been just after Ed’s momentary breakdown, when he demanded Lucius set him free. The perfect time for Cobblepot to waltz in and offer a deal – right when Ed was at his most desperate and vulnerable. He likes to think it was _after_ Ed had apologised for his conduct that day, that his regret the following week hadn’t been a sham. But he can’t be sure. “Maybe he already knew about Mr Penn, or maybe you discovered him at the Asylum and contacted Cobblepot yourself, hoping he’d help get you out, like he did before, in exchange for the information,” he goes on. “It doesn’t really matter. Penguin wanted Penn dead. And you agreed to help. With your background in law enforcement you must have known how long it would take to arrange for witness protection. So you planned a fatal accident you could orchestrate in that time.”

Ed stays silent. Petulance, perhaps, at having the opportunity to share his genius stolen from him. So Lucius continues.

“A dust explosion can be devastating in the right conditions and requires only a few basic ingredients. You didn’t have access to enough actual dust, of course, but there are plenty of alternatives that will serve. You could have used flour, I imagine they have plenty in the Asylum kitchen, but then, why bother? Cocoa power is just as effective and a box of it given as gift from a friend could be kept in your cell without raising suspicion. The balloon was for targeted dispersal. Filled with powder it would create a cloud once popped that could be easily ignited. I’m guessing you made some kind of device out of the hot chocolate packaging – had the balloon inside with a sharp object ready to pierce it on opening. Something like the sharpened end of a pencil from one of your craft workshops.”

“It was a spring from my mattress,” Ed interrupts. “Flattened into a line. They confiscate all tools at the end of each workshop. But good thinking. Please –” He makes a circle with the barrel of the gun, plum purple leather squeaking as it tightens over his knuckles. “Carry on.”

Not so petulant then. If anything Ed sounds _proud_ of Lucius’ deductions.

“Igniting a single burst of powder wouldn’t have caused the fire to spread like it did,” Lucius continues, heedless of whether he’s playing into Ed’s game now or not because the truth is burning him up inside. Has been all afternoon. He needs to douse the flames now before they consume him entirely. “You must have put the rest of it into the air conditioning somehow, had Penn positioned beneath an air duct when he opened the device.” It’s almost certain said device was wrapped in green paper dotted with question marks, but as this isn’t a relevant detail Lucius doesn’t ask for clarification. “You were close by ready to ignite the cloud, using the aerosol to give yourself enough distance to avoid the blast. It would have carried through the air ducts to the rest of the facility. I suppose you set up flammable objects in the relevant points of different rooms to ensure as much of the place caught fire as possible.”

Ed bites down on his smile and presses his free hand to his heart.

“You really are the smartest man in the city, Foxy,” he says. “Present company excepted.” He lifts his hand from his chest to shake a gloved finger in Lucius’ direction. “But you’re missing something.”

“The spark for the ignition.” Lucius nods. “It’s the one thing I couldn’t figure out.”

“It was a tricky one for me too,” Ed smiles, curling his free hand beneath his chin. “I was thinking of asking you for a candle. Something scented, to brighten up my cell. Access to a naked flame might have been pushing it, even with your influence, but it seemed worth a try.”

He’s so casual about the way he’d used their time together to facilitate his goal. Is that really all it was for him? All the looks and the laughter and the touches and the secrets they’d shared. Had it truly been nothing but artifice, simply a means to an end?

“In the end I got lucky,” Ed goes on. “Nina smokes, you know. Not long after you bought me the chocolate I noticed she was keeping a lighter in her back pocket.” He wiggles his fingers. “I’m quite sleight of hand these days.”

Mention of the girls puts the first crack in Lucius’ defiance. So Ed had used them too. Were all of them nothing but pawns? He drops his head with a sigh.

“Those girls cared about you,” Lucius mutters to the floor. “If they’re found to be even indirectly responsible for what happened they could lose their jobs.” He breathes deep as he lifts his gaze, trying to bring back the numb sense of calm that’s been holding him together until now. He fails. “Not to mention all the others, staff and patients alike, who got caught in the crossfire of your assassination. People were badly hurt. It’s a miracle no one else was killed.”

“Oh, you know how it goes,” Ed replies, adjusting his glasses so the light blanks out the lenses. “Omelettes. Eggs.” He settles the frames into position and his eyes come back into focus, clear and bright. “And don’t worry about the girls, they’ll be _fine_.” His smile pulls back to show his teeth. “They are smart, capable young women. I predict a bright future for both of them, whatever happens.”

Not long ago Lucius might have thought this implied a _fondness_ for the orderlies. Now he doesn’t know what to think and can only stare, open mouthed, at the callous dismissal of the other injured parties.

“Who _are_ you?” Lucius breathes.

Ed’s luminous smile dims at the edges.

“You know who I am.”

Lucius shakes his head.

“I thought I did,” he says. “But now I –”

His voice breaks as he fights a tide of grief for the man he knew. The man he’d trusted, believed in, risked his job for even. The man he’d given his time and his hopes and his heart. The man he _thought_ that he –

Lucius relinquishes his defiant stance to roll the ball of a hand over his eyes.

Is it possible to mourn someone who never existed?

“I gave you everything… everything you needed…” he mutters, lowering his arm. He tries for an accusatory glare, but he can’t muster up enough anger for it. It takes all his strength just to face this new man, this stranger in shining green with his empty grin and his gun. “I didn’t question it. Not for second.” Ed hadn’t even _asked_ for the hot chocolate or the balloon for heaven’s sake. He’d just spun his tale of childhood dreams and Lucius had taken it upon himself to become his benefactor. “All those stories you told me. About your father. What you wanted for your birthday.” Ed’s pain and confused anger, his lingering desire for parental approval – it had all seemed so _real_. Not to mention the rest. “The apologies. The gratitude. Your real name.” Lucius shakes and shakes his head, trying to free himself from the tangle of uncertainty Ed’s deceit has left him in. But he’s already woven too much of himself within the coils and they close tighter around him until he’s choking. “Was any of it true?”

“All of it was true!” Ed exclaims and his voice is broken glass, splintered and sharp.

The ferocity makes Lucius jump. He’d been so focused on his own misery he’d failed to notice Ed’s reaction to his lamentations, but he sees now Ed’s calm has also shattered.

“ _All of it!_ ” Ed repeats, bent forward, as though crushed by the confession.

And in that moment Lucius sees a glimmer of the man he remembers – brilliant but damaged, desperate for someone to connect to, to share himself with so he doesn’t have to be alone.

Then Ed blinks, straightens his back and the moment’s gone. Like a glimpse of light in running water.

“That’s what made it so effective,” he laughs, using the sound and accompanying smile to fix his carefree mask back into place.

But for moment Lucius _saw him_ , he’s sure of it, and the knowledge leaves him buoyant. Because it means his Ed is not lost and not a fabrication. He’s still in there somewhere.

And if he’s still there then Lucius can find him. He can bring him back.

“See, anyone can tell lies,” Ed continues, shifting forward, outstretched arm bending slightly from the strain of aiming the gun for so long. “That’s how you get caught – trying to keep your stories straight. I was _smarter_.” He taps a finger to his temple, purple fabric brushing the rim of his hat. “Instead of lying I used the truth of my situation to my advantage.” He licks his lips. “Although, I might have stretched the bounds of honesty a few times.” His gaze locks on to Lucius and Lucius lets himself be captured by it. It’s become habit, this connection. A pull Lucius will struggle to resist should he ever have need. “I meant my apology,” Ed tells him. He doesn’t have to specify which one. “You just didn’t know I was apologising for current crimes as well as past ones.”

That’s why his wording had been vague. Why he’d avoided voicing the specifics of his crimes. Not, as Lucius had believed, because Ed had been afraid to face them.

Or perhaps it was a mixture of Column A and Column B.

In any case, it seems he truly was – _is_ – sorry to have used Lucius like he did.

How sweet.

He’d still done it though.

“I didn’t…” Ed falters. “I didn’t expect your forgiveness,” he goes on, quieter, smile forgotten. “That wasn’t… it wasn’t the point…”

The stammer and self-conscious look away are another crack in Ed’s façade. One Lucius is quick to reach out to.

“What was the point?” he asks, soft this time.

Ed shakes his head.

“Like I told you, the doctors were talking about it.” He shrugs. “I thought I might…” He forces another laugh, gripping the gun like a lifeline as he focuses back. “You spend enough time in that place it starts to get in your head!”

“To _help you_ , you mean,” Lucius presses.

“Oh, po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe,” Ed mutters, swinging the gun from left to right with each variation on the word. “I wanted to do it. It doesn’t matter why. But it… it meant a lot, knowing you forgave me. That you… accepted me. Despite what I’d done. There hasn’t been a lot of people in my life willing to do that. Certainly none as wholesome as you.” He lowers the gun, just an inch.

“Ed –” Lucius takes a step forward, lifting a hand. He’s not sure what he hopes to do. Pluck the gun away, he supposes. Draw Ed to him. Show him he’s still accepted. That Lucius is still here, ready to help, if Ed would only let him. It won’t be easy getting past this betrayal but, god help him, Lucius is willing to try.

But instead of easing passed Ed’s defences the movement brings them crashing down again and Ed sucks a grin back onto his face, restoring his fallen aim.

“Or not so wholesome now, of course,” he says. “My vulpine vigilante.” The alliteration makes him chuckle. “But don’t worry, Foxy. Your secret identity’s safe with me.” He taps the side of his nose. “Having the man arrested though!” Ed parts his lips in a gleeful O. “I never imagined you’d go so far. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. I always knew there was a darker side to you, lurking underneath that –” He circles his free hand up and down Lucius’ body. “– civil exterior.”

Lucius ignores the last part, but an unpleasant thought begins to surface at the mention of his exposure of Mr Boles.

“You didn’t imagine I’d go as far as I did,” he starts. “But did you imagine _something?_ Was Mr Boles one of those… situational truths you mentioned? Did you… god, did you antagonise him _deliberately?_ To garner my sympathies?”

There’d been _naked fear_ in Ed’s eyes when in the man’s presence. He couldn’t have faked that. Could he?

“No,” Ed answers, swapping his jovial tone for a stony one. “No, Mr Boles was…” He sneers. “A complication.” He purses his lips and adjusts his glasses at the side, as though once again trying to hide the damage Mr Boles had inflicted upon him there. “On top of… everything else… he was always snooping around. Watching me in my cell. Asking after the gifts you left me, wanting to know what I was doing with them.” He frowns at Lucius. “I appreciate your confidence in my acting abilities, but Boles wasn’t part of any plan.” Lucius releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “That visit after…” Ed glances away, sucking his bottom lip. “After he struck me. You weren’t meant to know. That was all _wrong_. It was – it wasn’t –”

“It wasn’t part of the script?” Lucius offers.

“Yes!” Ed jabs the gun at Lucius’ chest. “Or rather _no_. No it wasn’t. You saw how violent, how _unpredictable_ he was. And you, you’re all soft. And sweet.” His eyes flick Lucius up and down and he swallows. “You’re a lover, Foxy, not a fighter,” he quips and bends his empty hand, palm upwards, in a frivolous shrug. More idiosyncrasy that assures Lucius his friend is still close. “I didn’t want you involved.”

“No, of course not,” Lucius nods, baiting a trap of his own. “Because if I got hurt, you’d lose your supply of arson material.” He holds his breath as he waits for Ed’s reaction.

Ed hesitates before he answers. Only a second, but his eyes catch Lucius’ gaze as he does and it means everything.

“Exactly,” Ed says, but it’s too late, his pause has already cast too much doubt on the agreement for it to hold the weight it should.

A powerful urge to smile rises up in Lucius and he has to turn away to smother it. People are hurt. A man is dead. Knowing Ed holds real feelings for him doesn’t change that.

And what good are those feelings anyway if Ed insists on defying them?

As Lucius turns, his eyes fall to the chess board and its fiery addition. Is the stalemate meant to represent Ed himself? Two sides of him stuck in endless battle without hope of victory. His empathy against his intellect. Desire for emotional intimacy verses the need to rise above the sentiment.

If so, it’s no wonder Ed’s behaviour is so erratic. It must be maddening to be forever at odds with yourself.

What an infuriating, captivating, paradox of a man Edward is. A Tin Man craving his heart while holding fast to the belief he shouldn’t have one.

With a sigh Lucius runs his fingers over the reddened paper fallen among the chessmen. If he’d found Ed’s riddle sooner would it have helped? Could he have stopped the game before it got this far, helped Ed find a balance within himself instead of more conflict?

“Now the fox, that was more strategic,” Ed says and Lucius breaks from his psychological analysis to frown at him. “It was Oswald’s idea,” Ed goes on, bending his gun arm to his chest and waving the weapon at the crumpled paper. His faces softens as he mentions Penguin’s name, lips a gentle curl. Though not as sharp as his previous smiles, this one cuts the deepest. “He thought it might help endear me to you.”

Lucius remembers the nervous spots of colour on Ed’s cheeks as he’d handed the fox over. How charming his enthusiasm for the gift had been.

It worked, he thinks.

“Was the riddle also at Penguin’s suggestion?” he asks.

“ _Ha ha!_ No,” Ed answers. “He’d be furious if he knew I did that. It could have jeopardised the whole plan.”

Which was the point, Lucius supposes. An added thrill. Ed has spoken before of the heightened sensation that comes with imminent danger and finding your true self in the experience. Presumably this is what the forewarning of his crime was meant to recreate.

“Well, I hope you were suitably entertained by my failure,” Lucius says, hiding his discomfort with sarcasm.

“Entertained?” Ed snaps. “You think I did this, any of this, for my _entertainment?_ ” He grips tighter round the gun, lifts it high and brings it down in a furious point. “No! No, I did this because I had to.” His next breath stutters as he draws it in, shoulders lifting. “I had to,” he repeats, softly but firm. Almost to himself. “And I was on a _knife edge_ every visit,” he continues, stepping forward so the gun, which he continues to thrust forward occasionally as he speaks, is within touching distance should Lucius dare. “Every time you walked through those doors I was convinced you’d figured it out. Because if anyone in this city could see what I was doing, if anyone could _understand_ , I was _certain_ it would be you.” His voice grows thin, eyes fierce but soft at the corners in a way that takes the sting out of his reproach. “I was so… _so sure_ that you would…”

He looks how Lucius feels – hurt and betrayed. It’s a far cry from the arrogance that should have accompanied the successful completion of his thrilling plot.

Almost as though he’d _wanted_ Lucius to thwart his plan.

And what does he mean he _had to?_

“But I was wrong,” Ed finishes, drawing the gun to his shoulder with a sigh that wracks his whole body.

Is it possible the riddle _wasn’t_ a taunt?

“What are you saying?” Lucius asks, once again reassessing and reassessing, trying to find the elusive understanding Ed wants from him. “Did Penguin… did he _force you_ to do this?”

It’s not implausible. Penguin has become almost synonymous with violence in Gotham vocabulary and in his fragile state at the asylum Ed would have been, as Harvey would say, an ‘easy mark.’

In which case, with thoughts and feelings pulled every which way by conflicting pressure from Penguin, his doctors, his sickness, not to mention the cruel ministrations of Mr Boles, a secret message might have been the only way Ed could find to ask for aid.

And who else would he think capable of saving him but the man he’d so thoroughly convinced himself was his hero?

Ed compounds these suspicions by licking his lips before he answers – that key tell of his that indicates concealment or avoidance of truth.

He grins when he looks up, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Your face goes all sour when we talk about Oswald, did you know?” he says. “Like you just swallowed a thumb tack. It’s adorable.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lucius tells him, a little harsher than necessary but this is important. If Ed was being coerced by Cobblepot it changes everything. “Ed, if you were acting under duress then –”

“ _Under duress_ ,” Ed tuts. “What does that even mean?” He circles his wrist, letting the gun hang loose from his fingers. “Everyone always talks about how important it is to determine if someone was forced to commit their crimes or if they performed them of their ‘own free will.’” With his free hand he adds air quotes over this last. “As if there’s any difference. There’s always some obligation, some convoluted social convention or responsibility dictating our actions. And frankly, Foxy –” His eyes light up, smile curling. But not with joy, with a desperate, creeping hysteria Lucius thought Ed’s time at Arkham had finally helped him escape. “– some of the times I’ve felt the most free, the most _alive_ , have been when acting with a gun to my head.”

What kind of stress Ed must have been living under to reach a state of mind where freedom seems impossible – Lucius can’t even imagine.

“So you’re saying –”

“I’m saying what Oswald and I have is…” He presses his lips together. “Complicated,” he settles on. “Whether we like it or not we’re a part of each other. I owe him.”

“No, Ed. No you don’t.”

Lucius takes another step forward, reaching out with both hands. He has a half formed idea that if he can just touch Ed he can draw some sense back into him. Because they are rapidly losing sight of logic here. Curse Penguin for reinforcing Ed’s psychosis like this.

The move puts him less than an arm’s width away and Ed rears back at the sudden proximity, sliding his weapon between them so Lucius feels the press of the muzzle against his chest. He doesn’t believe for moment that Ed would fire on him deliberately, but the higher Ed’s emotions run the more likely the chance of an accident grows, so Lucius stops reaching and holds still.

“Whatever Penguin’s done, or you think he’s done, for you,” Lucius goes on, reaching with his eyes now, trying to keep Ed fixed on him, to keep his mind from wondering further. “Don’t let him fool you into believing it buys him your loyalty. The man is a psychopath. You know he is. He killed the woman you loved.” Ed flinches at that, closing his eyes a moment. “It’s not freedom he offers you, it’s the opposite.” A flash of Jim Gordon from earlier that morning passes through his mind – sighing out over the bullpen, face lined. Old before his time. Much of his troubles had been caused by misguided connections and desperate attempts at disconnections to and from Penguin as well. “His world is dark and dangerous and cruel and any association with him can only hurt you in the end. No matter how reasonable he might sound.”

Ed’s mouth flicks to one side.

“The same could be said about me.”

“No. No, that’s not true.” Considering Jim _had_ said something very similar about Ed only today it’s bold of Lucius to insist otherwise. But he presses on regardless. “Ed, please, listen to me. If you did this because you somehow believe it was the only way to be true to yourself, you’re _wrong_. You are not like Penguin. You are not fated or destined to be a criminal. You’re _better_.”

“How –” Ed puffs out a laugh, but it’s dry, his face clouded. “After what I’ve done, how can you, of all people, possibly think that?”

It’s not a dismissal, it’s an honest question. A heartfelt plea. But Ed is drowning in misinformation, inside and out. One wrong word could sink him even deeper.

To pull him free Lucius needs to wade out to him first. He needs to speak in a way that will make Ed listen, in a language he’ll understand.

He remembers Ed’s wonder as he recognised himself in Lucius’ fumbling description of his thought process. And he remembers Ed’s own faltering attempts to explain himself after the business with Harvey and the police cadets – his search for some way, for someone, that could reveal the truth of him.

Yes, he can use that.

“I only exist when you are here,” he starts and the shift in cadence gains him Ed’s undivided attention, his eyes fixing on Lucius, narrow and curious. “Where you never were, I can never be. What am I?”

It’s a simple variation on the last of the three riddles Ed had asked him on that stairwell and he knows when Ed has the answer from the way the lines on this brow smooth away, like fading ripples down a stream. Ed had insisted, repeatedly, that Lucius had helped him discover himself that day. By harking back to it Lucius hopes he can do so again. And offer a more accurate reflection this time.

“Oswald is not the only one who sees you, Ed.”  

It works. For a moment. This close Ed’s glasses form almost no barrier at all and Lucius sees right through them as Ed’s eyes lose their hardened, artificial glow. He looks warmer. Younger. Hopeful.

Then he’s pushing Lucius away and stepping back.

“Enough,” Ed mutters as he extends his arm, once again aiming the gun at Lucius’ forehead. “I came here to give you back your chess board. And to explain. And – and now I have. So that’s it. That’s it, I’m done here.” His gaze travels back but he turns his head before meeting Lucius’ eye. “We’re done.”

He bends his elbow, drawing the weapon closer to him, and shifts round. Making to leave, Lucius realises.

“Wait. Wait!” Lucius cries, mind on overdrive, scanning every relevant fact and detail for anything that might keep Ed with him. There’s no time to waste so he latches on to the first thing he finds, trivial though it is. “There’s something I still don’t understand. About how you did it.”

Ed stops and bites his lip, debating whether to heed the call. But he’d come here to explain, he said, and Lucius is banking on Ed’s need to stay until that obligation is fulfilled.

Finally, as Lucius hoped, Ed’s compulsion wins out and he turns back.

“What?” he asks, eyes guarded now.

“You said you stole the lighter soon after I bought the hot chocolate, correct?”

“Yes…” Ed draws out the word, suspicious.

“That means that the aerosol was the last item you needed.”

“Yes,” Ed repeats, impatient this time.

“But I got it to you the day after you asked. You had it for over a week before you made your move. I thought that was because you still needed an ignition but if you didn’t, then – why did you wait?”

The answer isn’t important, it’s just an excuse to keep Ed talking. Lucius imagines the truth will be something mundane. A change to scheduled therapy causing Ed to miss his window or some such. He’s already planning follow up questions to keep the conversation going.

So it throws him when Ed stiffens as he asks and starts to tap a discordant rhythm against his belt.

“Considering my deadline, a week was a long as I could delay,” he answers. Still tapping. The question must have touched a nerve somehow.

“But - why delay at all?”

Ed stuffs his hand in his jacket pocket to hold it still.

“Because I wanted –” He cuts off and gulps down a breath. Trying to resist, to keep the words in. Then he sighs and sags in surrender. “I wanted you to myself,” he admits. “Just once. Before the end.” The gun dips as his arm begins to shake. “One last visit, with no ulterior motive, no hidden agenda. Just you and me, together.”

Heat flares up Lucius’ neck and pricks behind his eyes and he can’t tell if it’s from affection or anger.

It’s _because of Ed_ the sincerity of their time together at the asylum was cast into doubt. That Ed should regret that is infuriating. And heart-warming. And infuriating for being heart-warming. Goddamn it. Goddamn the man longing for more while throwing away what they had.

And goddamn him for loving Ed for it.

Lucius flattens both hands over the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. Damming up the wet heat while he tries to process.

“You realise,” he starts, voice muffled behind the cage of his fingers. He breathes deep through his nose as he pulls them down, palms pressed together beneath his chin as he blinks his damp, unfocused gaze in Ed’s direction. “You realise every week could have been like that.”

It’s cold comfort watching Ed nod in response.

“Yes I know that. You think I don’t?” Ed waves his arm, gun once again slack in his hand, like it’s no more than an accessory. An afterthought addition to his hat and gloves. “You were always so… so _earnest_ and and and _real_.” His eyes circle to the ceiling, head tipping back. “My _god_ , Lucius –” He brings his head down with such force his hat wobbles to the side. Not by much, but enough to make its placement very slightly uneven. “Even when you were _lying_ you were honest about it! How – how do you do it? Just – live your life like that, knowing who you are?” His lips curl back from his teeth and he shakes his head. “The things you said to me, I –” The static grin fades. “You almost had me believing I could really go through with it. Arkham. Therapy. All of it.”

Almost. Almost. Their whole relationship in a word.

“But you didn’t.”

“I _couldn’t_.”

“Yes, you _could!_ ” Lucius yells, too tired to stopper his fury any longer. “You were more than capable. If you’d just _told me the truth_ I would have _helped you._ ”

“Have you ever tried crossing the Penguin?” Ed snaps back.

“I’d have got you protection.”

“From where, the GCPD?” Ed’s eyebrows climb to the rim of his hat. “ _Please_.” He sniffs. “Besides, if I told you then my life wouldn’t have been the only one at risk, would it?”

Lucius throws up his hands.

“Oh, so you did it to _protect me_ ,” he scoffs. “So you could come here and hold a gun to my head.” He nods to the weapon. “Forgive me if I don’t find the experience as liberating as you claim to.”

A flicker of disappointment passes over Ed’s face. He covers it with a shrug.

“What this?” He aims the gun at the ceiling. “This is just for nostalgia. You, me, a gun. Like old times. Heh heh.”

“Of all the times we’ve shared, I wouldn’t call them our best.”

Ed gives a slow, exaggerated nod.

“You’re right,” he concedes, theatrically magnanimous. “Would this help?”

He has the gun beneath his hat, barrel against his temple, before Lucius even registers the move. His finger squeezes down on the trigger and panic sets in too late – too late _again_ , like always. 

“ ** _Don’t!_** ” Lucius screams.

And in the same instant the gun emits an anticlimactic _click_.

Chest on fire from the speed of his pounding heart, throat burning with every breath, Lucius watches as Ed clicks the trigger five more times and then lifts the gun away, leaving it to swing impotently from one finger.

Empty.

“I couldn’t kill you, Foxy,” Ed tells him while Lucius fights his way back to something resembling calm. “Even if I wanted to I could never –” He holds in his next breath, finds a spot on the ceiling and tries to keep his eyes focused on it. “You’ve become…” Ed blinks rapidly several times and Lucius catches a wet sheen across his eyes. He continues very fast, spitting out the words before whatever else there is rising inside him breaks the surface. “Oh, you’ve become such a _weakness!_ ”

There’s a moment of stillness. The eye of the storm.

Then it breaks with the thunder of the gun, slamming against the polished wooden floor as Ed crashes into him. Lucius tries to meet the embrace but it’s like clutching a tidal wave. Ed is everywhere – lips on his cheek – his jaw – his neck – hands on his waist – up his chest – in his hair. Every touch, every smell, every taste is nothing but Ed. Lucius can hardly breathe. He’s surrounded. Submerged. And it’s wonderful. It’s perfect. All the vast, sprawling distance between them over and done. No barriers. No rules. Nothing to stop him from sinking his hands into the warmth beneath Ed’s jacket – from letting Ed cup his face and pull him down into kiss after kiss after kiss.

“Ed… _Ed_ …” Lucius murmurs as Ed scrapes the firm tips of his gloves down the soft, fleshy skin behind his ears. Lucius blinks heavy-lidded eyes as he tries to swim back to consciousness.

“Mmmm,” Ed hums, catching an earlobe between his teeth.

Lucius groans and frees a hand to stroke around Ed’s neck to the back of his head, where he’s distracted by the tickle of Ed’s hair between his fingertips.

“Foxy. My Foxy,” Ed breathes in-between hot, wet licks about the shell of Lucius’ ear, the words rumbling inside. “My… my first is foremost legally –” Lick. “My second circles outwardly.” Nibble. “My third leads all in victory –”

“Damn it, Ed,” Lucius mutters. “Not – not now. Don’t –” The heat and the touch make him hazy. Thinking is difficult. Words are harder. “Don’t riddle me!”

“Don’t _what?_ ” Ed giggles and the warm wisps of air down Lucius’ jaw are sensational.

“You know what I mean.”

“Riddle me,” Ed repeats, with more delicious giggles. “I like it.” He moves closer, pushing their bodies flush together. “But you’re right. Perhaps this time –” His voice lowers, growing husky. Almost a growl. “– you should riddle me.”

Lucius feels one of Ed’s hands drop to the small of his back and press down as Ed circles his hips. The effect is –

Notable.

 _God_. This is too distracting.

“Ed you – I –”

With effort Lucius twists free from Ed’s embrace, his hands on Ed’s waist and neck holding them apart. Just barely, but still.

“Ed, stop. We need to – we need to figure this out.” Ed’s eyes are dark, his lips enticingly near, so Lucius leans in until only their foreheads are touching, removing temptation from his line of sight. He can feel the edge of Ed’s hat rub along his hairline. “We can still make this right,” he pants. “If you explain. Tell the authorities – tell them –” Ed reaches in and rubs the gloved pad of his thumb up and down Lucius’ beard. “Tell them about Penguin. That you feared for my safety.  They’ll be lenient.”

There’s a pause, Ed’s thumb holding still. Then Ed is the one pulling away, both palms coming to rest either side of Lucius’ face.

“Come on, Foxy,” Ed says. “You’re smarter than that. The damage I’ve caused, with my history? They won’t be _lenient_. They’ll lock me up for good this time. I’ll be lucky if they don’t send me to Blackgate.”

He’s right. Of course he is.

And Blackgate, that’s a _real prison_. High Security. They likely have a thousand more limits to inmate and visitor interaction there. Shorter times under greater scrutiny. For a high profile criminal like Ed they might even insist on contact via glass only.

Here and now, with Ed warm and soft and real in his arms, the thought is horrifying. Lucius runs frantic hands up Ed’s wrists and grips the warm leather at his cheeks, reassuring himself Ed is not about to ripped from his grasp this instant.

“Then don’t tell them.” It doesn’t matter this is a complete reversal of his previous argument. Lucius can’t let Ed slip through his fingers again. There has to be a way to bring back what they had, there has to. “No one knows it was you that started the fire,” he goes on, thinking aloud. “I spoke about it with Gordon. He suspects Penguin but the GCPD have no leads on the fire itself.” The facts solidify into an idea that becomes a credible idea that becomes a plan and Lucius grips Ed’s shoulders in excitement. “You could just go back.” Ed slides his hands round Lucius’ neck as Lucius draws him closer. “Tell the Warden that you left the Asylum because you were scared. The fire. The riots. So you ran and – and –” Lucius nods a couple of times, urging himself on. He’s in the midst of a Eureka moment here, he can finish this. “And you came here, because it’s the one place you knew you’d be safe.” Ed is riveted – lips parted, gaze fixed. Hanging on every word. “No one could fault you for that. And no one could prove otherwise, not even Cobblepot. And if he tries then –” Lucius breathes in the rush of Ed’s scent, shivers at the thrill of Ed’s fingers round the nape of his neck. “Then I’ll vouch for you.”

Ed’s cheeks bubble around his smile, the curve of them bright with liquid shine. Is he wearing blush?

“You’d do that,” he says, breathless. It’s not a question. “Add perjury to your criminal résumé. Is there anything you wouldn’t do for me?”

This draws attention to the uncomfortable truth of Lucius’ offer and the illegality of it nags at him, like grit beneath his tongue.

“We can – we can work out the details later,” he mutters as Ed flicks Lucius’ nose with his own. A child-like expression of joy. Wild. Carefree. Easily burst. “Just… just stay. Stay.”

His fingers press into the shoulders of Ed’s jacket, gripping the sharp bone below. He’s so thin. So fragile.

When Lucius surrenders to temptation at last and kisses him, deep and long, it’s as though he’s trying to infuse Ed with his own strength. A physical exchange of sanity.

“Stay with me,” he breathes into Ed’s lips as they come up for air.

“Or you could leave,” Ed hums back and Lucius smiles at the teasing tickle of laughter that follows.

Until Ed gasps and jerks away, hands dropping to Lucius’ elbows where the roll of his sleeves meets bare skin.

“You could leave,” Ed repeats with greater emphasis, eyes like fireworks, sparkling with possibility. “And come with me.” His right hand pinches Lucius’ arm below the fabric while his left flattens against his own chest. “I never thought I’d want a partner,” he goes on. “Not after everything with Oswald but –” His mouth hangs open, wonderstruck. “With our minds together.” He touches his temple, then gestures to Lucius’ brow, miming an invisible link between the two. “We’d be such a team!”

“Ed, I don’t –”

“No, stop.” Ed tugs him closer, ghosting his fingers over Lucius’ open mouth. “Just think about it. Think about what we could do together.” There’s no mania to his gaze now. He looks sober. Calculating. “You feel stifled by the GCPD, I know you do.” He lifts his hand to the side. “Why else do you keep trying to circumvent it?” His arm drops. “And you were stymied over and over at Wayne Enterprises. All the office politics, the backroom dealings, the endless red tape.” The hand still clutching at Lucius slides down and folds into his palm, Ed’s eyes never leaving his face. “Come with me and we can escape all that. The only rules we’d have to follow would be our own. Our only limits would be –” He moves his other hand over Lucius’ knuckles and squeezes, parted lips stretching out and curling up. “– the borders of our imagination.” A distant roar fills Lucius’ ears. “We could do anything. _Be_ anything.”

Anything.

The world seems to fold around him as Lucius stares through the glass of Ed’s lenses into the other man’s sharp, clever, hopeful eyes. Folding. Bending. Shaping the idea into something more.

He thinks of Mr Boles, safely behind bars. Not because of the law but because Lucius had broken it. And Gotham is full of men and women like Mr Boles, full of people, _children_ , struggling and hurting and dying. People the authorities can’t help.

It wouldn’t be such a change in principle. He fought the system alongside Thomas, bent the rules to aid the oppressed, and has striven to help Bruce continue his father’s legacy. This would be more of the same, wouldn’t it? Not crime so much as – _activism._

And might it not benefit Ed in the long run? Having Lucius at his side could help him focus, let him channel his energy into something productive. In any case, Lucius has a better chance of guiding Ed away from the dark, churning undercurrents of his illness when they’re together.

Ed watches and waits while Lucius considers and the appeal of the offer must show because soon Ed is flashing his sunbeam smile.

“Let’s do it, Lucius!” he exclaims with a little bounce. “We could leave right now.” He waves a hand at the door over his shoulder, his other still circled warm and tight in Lucius’ own. “I know a place we can crash while we figure things out. You’d just need to pack the essentials, leave the rest. It’s just stuff, right? We can get more. And better.”  He brings his hand back to rub the blue edge of Lucius’ collar between his fingers, lips snaking wider across his face. “I bet you’d look just _dandy_ in green.”

His head tilts and a flare of that very colour reflects in his lenses, caught from his jacket.

 _The Riddler_ ’s jacket.

And that’s all it takes for the dream to come crashing down.

“Ed,” Lucius starts but Ed flinches from the weight in his tone.

“Come on, I’ll help you put some things together,” he mutters, turning to the kitchen. “What kind of food do you have?”

He untangles from Lucius’ fingers and steps away, but Lucius grabs at his hand before Ed moves out of reach and pulls.

“Wait.”

Ed tenses as he twists back, holding himself, quite literally, at arm’s length.

“I – I can’t,” Lucius tells him.

Ed stares.

Then laughs.

“Don’t be silly, yes you can,” he says and Lucius finds his hand smothered in a vice-like grip, tight enough to make him wince. “Of course you can, the door’s right there.” Ed keeps his body ramrod straight as he lifts his other hand and flicks a couple of fingers behind him. “All you have to do is walk through it.” When Lucius opens his mouth to answer Ed dashes forward and snatches his other hand. “Just. Just, _come with me_.” He presses both of Lucius’ hands to his chest. To his heart. “No more hiding in the shadows using your genius to further someone else’s agenda. Lucius. We could be free.”

Please, his eyes beg. Please. Please. A lost boy, not looking to come home but for someone to join him in Neverland.

Lucius shakes his head.

“Ed, what you’re talking about isn’t freedom.” There’s a tightness in his throat that makes it hard to get the words out. A damp sting in his eyes that makes Ed warp and blur, the shape of him indistinct. “It’s madness.”

With a wet choking sound Ed yanks his hands away and steps back, leaving Lucius to flounder in empty air while he blinks his eyes clear. He’s just in time to catch Ed blinking hard himself and swiping purple fingertips under his glasses.

Lucius doesn’t bother to clean the lines tracking down his own cheeks. There’s something satisfying in the tight pull on his skin as they dry.

“That’s it then,” Ed mutters. “That’s it. We’re really done.”

“Ed, no, we can still –”

“No, no.” Ed holds a hand in front of his face, blocking Lucius out. “I was right,” he goes on, ending the statement with a roll of his eyes. “Of course I was right, I’m always right!” His gaze tracks back to Lucius and holds there. Heavy and sad. “We live in different worlds, you and me. We – we’re black and white.” His words grow faster, spilling over each other in a frantic cascade. “We’re oil and water. We’re chalk and cheese. This could never work, I was an idiot to ever think –!” A pregnant pause. A shallow breath. “What we had was a momentary distraction.” With a vicious swipe Ed slices his hand through the air. “Nothing more!”

He stares Lucius down, mouth twisted in a snarl. But Lucius knows from the desperate tension in Ed’s shoulders and the tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes that the curl of his lips is merely to stop them from trembling. A deception. A performance. A new persona for him to hide behind.

Well, two can play that game.

Lucius runs a hand down his patterned navy tie, smoothing out the creases and tightening the knot. Donning his own mask, of sorts. He’s long found that a pristine outward appearance can disguise a multitude of inner turmoil.

“Well,” he says, pleased to find himself in control of his voice once more, able to render it calm and collected. “You can believe that if you want. All I know –” He offers a tight but honest smile. A mask can hide a lot of things, but regardless, some truths will out. “– is that I was really looking forward to our date at the funfair.”

A heavy silence follows, but Lucius doesn’t mind. He just waits it out.

Your move, Ed.

Slow but sure, like melting ice, Ed starts to soften, the lines on his face fading from anger to pain. It’s beautiful to watch – all his hard edges slipping away. A time-lapsed replay of their entire relationship up to now.

He presses the knuckles of one hand to his lips and nods, before closing the distance between them in three quick strides and wrapping Lucius back in his arms, chin over his shoulder, damp cheek against damp cheek.

“I’m sorry, Lucius.”

With a stuttered sigh Lucius circles his arms about Ed’s waist, one hand resting between Ed’s shoulder blades.

“So am I,” he says, burying his face in the crook of Ed’s neck.

Sorry.

Sorry for your pain.

Sorry for not being the man you want me to be.

Sorry I couldn’t save you.

“I know,” Ed whispers and Lucius feels gentle fingertips circle the back of his head and press down, holding him close. “But I meant, I’m sorry for this.”

There’s a stabbing pain at the nape of his neck.

Lucius reels back with a cry as the pain dulls to an uncomfortable tug. Something sharp leaving his skin. He slaps a hand to the spot, but the source of the pain is gone now, its damage done, and Ed is pulling away. He lifts his hands as he steps back and Lucius widens his eyes at the syringe in his right, one last drop of liquid rolling down the tip.

“Don’t worry,” Ed tells him, voice soft. “It’s just a drop of midazolam. You’ll only be out for a few hours. Drink lots of water when you wake up, you’ll be fine.”

Where –?

Eyes still on Lucius, free hand reaching out to him, Ed slips the needle in his jacket pocket. _Back_ in his jacket pocket.

But when –?

No. No, no, no. Lucius shakes his head, already woozy. Ed is sleight of hand these days. He could have grabbed the needle at any point between the walk over and the hug. These are the wrong questions.

“Why?”

“Because I know you, Lucius,” Ed replies. Still using his name. That’s important. Focus. Focus on that. “If we part like this, you’ll _fret_. Might try to follow me. Call the emergency services. And I know you’ll mean well, because you _always_ mean well, but –” He waves his now empty right hand and trying to follow the gesture makes Lucius dizzy. “– it’ll just make everything more difficult. And messy. Better to have a clean break.”

“Ed, no, don’t –” Lucius tries to grab Ed’s shoulder but misses and stumbles. “Don’t do this.”

“Easy.”

Ed grabs him by the arms and the apartment lurches around them and falls.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling up.

No, it’s Lucius who’s falling.

He grabs Ed by the elbows and blinks. Focus. Stay awake.

“We both know you can’t fight this,” Ed is saying. Lucius is kneeling on the ground, Ed likewise, still holding him. “Make it easy on yourself and don’t try.”

There’s so much kindness in his voice. A cobweb of dark lines across his face. Lucius wants to – he wants to brush the lines away. Free Ed of their darkness.

“Please…” His mouth is full of cotton. “Ed I – I lov –”

It’s pitiful how easy Ed is able pluck an arm from Lucius’ hold.

“Hush,” he says, resting his gloved palm over Lucius’ cheek. Lucius blinks. And blinks. Trying to see through the flashes of light across Ed’s lenses into his eyes. “You might be the only person in my life who’s never lied to me, you know. Don’t start now.”

But it’s not a lie, Lucius says.

No. Thinks. He needs to say it. Why can’t he say it?

His head feels heavy. His lips are moving too slow. The world spins.

Then music. From far away.

He forces his eyes open. When did they close? He’s looking up. Ed stretches out above him in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. No hat. A flash of panic – where is it? Lucius hopes it’s safe. It suits him. The hat.

Ed’s fingers are stroking his hair. Rhythmic. Gentle. He’s in Ed’s lap, Lucius realises.

And the music?

He watches Ed’s lips. They’re moving.

Ed is the music.

A song. Lucius tries to listen. Focus on the words. Stay awake. Something about putting out a fire. Not being afraid of the dark.

He’s not afraid, but – but there was something he wanted to say. Before the dark. But he can feel it closing in.

At least it’s not cold. Not with Ed’s hands warm on his skin.

Perhaps he can tell Ed later. Perhaps –

But the darkness rushes in and pulls him under.

 

* * *

 

**One month later.**  
**Now.**

He’d woken up laid out on the couch, a glass of water on the coffee table beside him next to a fresh paper fox. This one was fashioned out of crisp, white folds and positioned as if it were guarding the two chalky drops of Aspirin at its feet.

Lucius doesn’t know how long he lay there, staring. Or how long he lay there after, when the bittersweet sight of Ed’s aftercare grew too much and he’d fallen back against the cushions, hands over his face.

Not so long that he’d failed to make it to work on time the following morning. Looking back he thinks the routine of getting ready and heading out to the precinct was probably what kept him from falling apart.

He’d learnt on arrival that Ed had been officially designated a fugitive from justice – Harvey had uncovered footage of him fleeing the Asylum. When the detective had asked Lucius, an icy shard of suspicion in his eye, if Ed had tried to contact him, Lucius had told him ‘no.’ Harvey had gone on to make some comment about Ed not being such a poster boy for reform after all and Lucius had hung his head and murmured agreement and apologies and Harvey had softened at the contrition, patting Lucius on the shoulder as he walked away.

It had felt like he was trapped in some ineffable cycle. The destruction of one relationship allowing the restoration of another. The cogs of the universe carrying him back to status quo.

In the days that followed the GCPD had done everything in their power to link Penn’s death to Penguin. But no matter how many inmates and staff were interviewed or how long Lucius and his team slaved away examining different pieces of debris, there was nothing to indicate the fire had been anything more than an unfortunate accident.

Nothing but the truth Lucius continued to withhold.

He justified it by arguing that without evidence his word wouldn’t hold up in court anyway, so what was the point in revealing Ed’s involvement? But still, he was grateful for every forensic dead end. If they had found proof of arson Lucius honestly doesn’t know how he would have responded. Would he have followed the trail back to Ed like the stand up member of law enforcement he was supposed to be? Or would his lies of omission have become outright lies? And what would such conduct be in aid of if so? To protect Ed, or to protect himself?

Everything was riddle after riddle after riddle. Questions without answer.

And the biggest of all –

What now?

Back then Lucius could never have predicted that ‘now’ would see him staring down the barrel of a gun into Oswald Cobblepot’s unflinching gaze. But the smug twist of the other man’s smile reminds Lucius of that day in the precinct, that moment when an inkling of a plan had first begun to form, and that direct link from there to here adds a sense of inevitability to the predicament.

It was just as all avenues of investigation into the Arkham fire had been exhausted, the case deemed closed in all but name. That was when Penguin had swept into the GCPD, bold as brass, and requested information about his ‘dear old friend’ Mr Penn. Said he’d heard rumours that Penn was at the Asylum during the fire and wanted confirmation. He’d laid out an elaborate story, in full earshot of any and all who happened to be in the bullpen at the time, about how devastated he’d been to lose such a valued employee to the vile Sofia Falcone, that he was broken hearted to learn Penn might have been alive all this time without him knowing and was there anything he could do to help the man’s family and so on and so forth. It was all rot and everyone knew it. A thinly disguised gloat.

Lucius had been consulting with Harper on a recent B&E when Cobblepot arrived, so he’d heard the whole thing. And when Penguin was done and waving goodbye to a silent and fuming Gordon, he’d given the room one last imperial look, and his eyes fell on Lucius.

He’d stopped, tipped his head back and assessed Lucius over the long tip of his nose. Then smirked. A knowing, conceited gleam in his eye.

That was when Lucius knew.

Knew that the only way back to Ed was by removing the obstacle between them, for good.

One squeeze of his finger and he’ll do just that.

And without Penguin around to tempt him Ed can finally leave his criminal past behind.

It’ll be poetic. In a way. Last time Oswald died it had broken Ed, driven him to a life of crime. This time it will fix him, save him from that life. A tidy full circle.

All Lucius needs to do is squeeze his finger. Pull the trigger.

End a life to save a life.

It’s basic logic. Simple mathematics.

Do it. His pounding heart seems to beat out a chorus. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it do it doit doit. Do. It. Do. It. Do. It.

“Would this help?” Oswald asks, pushing to his feet.

Lucius gasps and steps back.

“Don’t – don’t try anything,” he stammers, adjusting his aim back to Oswald’s forehead.

“Or what?” Oswald chuckles. “You’ll kill me?”

Lucius swallows.

“I will,” he says.

But he doesn’t.

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you.”

Oswald starts to limp around the desk. Unhurried. Each step slow and sure.

As Lucius follows him with the gun he considers shooting now. It would make sense - while in motion Oswald will be less likely to dodge or fight.

But it doesn’t seem polite, catching the man unawares like that. So he waits for Oswald to reach the front of the desk.

Except Oswald doesn’t stop there. He keeps going, limping closer, only coming to rest once the gun is pressed to the centre of his brow, green eyes gleaming along with the metal.

“There,” he grins. “Now you can’t miss.”

He’s mocking. Cocky. But all the better if it makes this easier. It would serve the villain right for Lucius to do it now and prove him wrong.

He’s leaning slightly, so he’ll probably fall forward after. Should Lucius let him drop or catch him? He tries to calculate the blood flow, where it will spray and how much there’ll be. He imagines it seeping into him through his clothes, Oswald’s rosy cheeks grown pale, bright eyes lifeless. In his mind Oswald is already a deadweight in his arms, real in a way all the abstract planning and mechanical execution hasn’t accounted for and the shock of it paralyses him.

He tries to take a breath but his throat seizes up, fearful of blood spatter caught on his teeth, tasted and swallowed.

He’s losing control. He needs a moment. He needs to –

Without warning, in the space between one thought and the next, Oswald grabs the gun and wrenches it from Lucius’ grasp. The manoeuvre is so smooth it’s like he hasn’t moved at all, head still positioned just so, gaze unbroken.

A heavy sigh fills the air and it takes Lucius a moment to understand it’s coming from him.

That’s it then. It’s over.

He shuts his eyes, floating in the vast expanse between relief and disappointment, waiting to see where he’ll wash up.

“Don’t be sad, Mr Fox,” Oswald tells him through the dark. “You should be proud you even made it this far. But in the end, we are who we are.” His words are soft and when Lucius blinks down to look he finds Oswald’s expression is as well, lips flattened in sympathy. “None of us can fight our nature. Not you. Not me. And especially not Edward Nygma.”

He turns, hobbles back to the desk and deposits the gun beside his decanter.

A flicker of _something_ pierces the numbness Lucius realises he’s been shielding himself with all this time. Not just today but from the moment he formulated the plan. No, further back than that. From the moment Ed left him. But it’s not disappointment or relief, it’s frustration.

“No. I don’t believe that,” he says. Oswald spreads his arms out either side of him as he turns and clasps the polished edge of the desk, eyebrows lifting. “We’re not _animals_ ruled by instinct. We have the capacity to reason. To be _better_. We are who we chose to be.” Oswald’s eyes slide away, curiosity passing rapidly from disinterest into boredom. “Or who others force us to become,” Lucius adds, sharper.

If he can’t kill the man he can at least vent his disapproval.

The not so veiled reprimand turns Oswald’s focus back to him but instead of mounting a defence he merely shakes his head around another hum of laughter.

“Wow. He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Oswald’s smile turns indulgent. Almost fond. A look you might give a pet as it chases its tail. “ _Months_ he had you in that asylum dancing to his tune, and yet it’s _me_ you hate for it?” He leans forward. “You know Stockholm is something the captive suffers from, not the captor, right?”

“Ed wasn’t my captive,” Lucius answers. “He was –”

He bites back the rest. What he and Ed were to each other is no one’s business but theirs.

But Oswald is quick to fill in the blank.

“Your friend?” he teases. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what he made you believe.” He twists round and plucks his empty glass from the desk, refilling it from the decanter as he goes on. “He and I were friends as well.” This time he doesn’t down the drink but sips at it leisurely. As though this were just another night at the club and Lucius just another guess to entertain. “Then he shot me and dumped me in the river, so really –” He waves the glass in Lucius’ direction. “– you should be grateful you got off so lightly.”

“Don’t try and compare us,” Lucius snaps. He’s had more than his fill of comparisons to Oswald Cobblepot without the man himself weighing in. “What happened between Ed and me is nothing like the _madness_ you drove him to. How can you possibly believe you were friends when you murdered his lover?”

More laughter.

“If by ‘lover’ you mean the carbon copy of his dead girlfriend that he knew for less than two weeks and whose surname he never found out then yes, I killed her. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Lucius blinks. Penguin is renowned for the quality his deception but, this seems far too specific, and downright weird, to be falsehood.

“What? Did he not mention that about her?” Oswald grins.

“It… it doesn’t matter who she was. Or how long they knew each other,” Lucius counters, refusing to let the other man distract him with imaginary trump cards. “He cared for her. A friend would have respected that.”

Oswald purses his lips and looks down.

“You’re not wrong there,” he says, swirling the liquid round and around in his glass. “I have… regrets over how I handled that particular situation.”

It’s jarring how believable this confession is.

“But not enough to leave him alone,” Lucius responds, holding to the facts. Because Oswald’s actions speak far louder than this fleeting pang of remorse. With a slow sweep of his lashes Oswald lifts his eyes back up. “You just couldn’t stop hounding him, could you? Even after your great victory, displaying him in ice like some trophy –” He waves a hand to the shuttered wall leading out to the centre of the club, where Ed’s frozen form had once been suspended. “– still you came after him. He was no longer a threat to you and he was doing _well_ in Arkham, he was getting better. But you just had to drag him back, break his mind all over again by making him your assassin!”

From the look Oswald gives him Lucius might as well have announced the world was flat, up was down and other impossible hypotheses. Then Oswald tips his head back as some unknown insight passes through him, eyes and lips growing wide.

“Oh. Oh I _see_.” A flash of yellow teeth show beneath his smile. “You still think he actually turned himself in.” There’s so much authority in this claim that a tickle of doubt starts to scratch at the corners of Lucius’ mind. “Oh, that’s adorable.” Oswald wraps both of his gloved hands around his glass and fixes Lucius with more of that arrogant fondness. “When you insinuated that all this –” He twists a hand in a quick circle to indicate the state of the club before returning it to the glass. “– was for him, I assumed you were mad at me for holding any sway with Ed at all. That he’d turned your head so badly you’d simply forgiven him his personal sins. But you don’t even _know_.” He shakes his head in disbelief, but with a sharp, lingering smile that tells Lucius this is a happy surprise. Like Christmas come early. “I must be like a bogeyman to you,” Oswald continues, eyes dancing at the notion. “The big bad Penguin menacing poor, crazy, innocent little Eddie.” Bobbing his head in delight, Oswald lifts his glass to Lucius in a toast. “That’s priceless. Thank you!” He takes a long swig and smacks his lips with a satisfied sigh.

“Whatever you’re implying, I don’t –”

“Oh come _on_ , Mr Fox. Ed told me you were smart.” Oswald frees a hand again to steady himself against the desk. Shifting his weight off his bad leg. “So think about it,” he goes on, gesturing every so often with his glass. “I have money. And power. And some of Gotham’s most competent criminals on my payroll. Not to mention probably the best assassin, bar _none_ , in the world. If I need someone dead all I need to do is snap my fingers and it’s _done_. So why, in god’s name, would I request a tediously complicated execution to be carried out by Edward Nygma?”

It’s a logical argument. But in this context that doesn’t make it a sound one. As Lucius understands it, there is little in the way of logic when it comes to the relationship between Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma.

“Why?” Lucius repeats. “I imagine someone as depraved as you would have many reasons. A show of power. Personal gratification from exploiting the vulnerable. Revenge for Ed trying to kill you.” Lucius folds his arms. “Your reasons don’t matter. I _know_ that Ed felt pressured to do what he did. That he feared the consequences if he failed. He told me he owed you.”

Oswald frowns.

“He said that?” His voice grows quiet, face turning away. “Silly man…” The side of him Lucius can see grows soft, the tension round his eyes melting, transforming him into someone you might mistake as gentle. Someone you’d look upon and take for kind. Then he shakes himself and turns back, face sharp and lined once more. “After we defeated Miss Falcone we agreed, all of us, to a clean slate.” He doesn’t clarify who ‘us’ refers to, but while official records are patchy on the subject it’s no secret that several of the city’s more colourful criminals had agreed to a temporary truce and uneasy alliance against the mobster, The Riddler included. “A new start for a new Gotham,” Oswald goes on. “All former grievances were set aside.” He shrugs. “If Ed perceived a debt, it didn’t come from me.”

There’s a sickening drop in Lucius’ stomach as he realises _he_ _believes this_.

“No… no Ed told me –”

“Although –” Oswald twists his lips. Thoughtful. “Failure is one thing. Why would that matter? I could have eliminated Penn myself. But if he’d tried to oppose me.” He nods to himself. “Done something truly insane, like protected the man instead of killing him. Conspired with the GCPD to help him testify –” His eyes sweep Lucius up and down. “Well then I’d have had to act, wouldn’t I?”

A voice shouts, loud and frantic, from Lucius’ memory

_Have you ever tried crossing the Penguin?_

Crossing. He’d thought Ed meant by breaking their deal.

_If I told you then my life wouldn’t have been the only one at risk, would it?_

But if it was active opposition to Oswald, and not failing him, that Ed feared repercussions for, then –

“But there was no fear of that,” Oswald continues, knocking back the remainder of his drink and returning the glass to his desk. “I mean, you know Ed,” he adds with a nod to Lucius. Casual. Like they’re old friends. “Once he commits to something he’s very particular about it. Doesn’t like to deviate from his plan.” His gaze turns inward for a moment and he rubs at his side, as though trying to ease a sudden pain. “Even if part of him might want to.”

Lucius pictures Ed’s fingers around a black pawn, unable to let go.

“No,” he mutters under his breath, folded arms slipping apart. “No he doesn’t…”

His plan. The words echo inside his head. His plan. His plan.

“So if committing to Arkham was his plan… and you posed no threat… why… why would he have agreed to help you? Why would you have wasted your time trying to make him…?”

All the pieces are there, Lucius can feel it. All he needs to do is reshuffle them, just a little, and he’ll have the picture.

“Go on, Mr Fox,” Oswald tells him. “You’re so very close.”

Lucius stares ahead, unseeing, as the facts fall into place one by one.

“You didn’t come to him with the plan to kill Penn,” he says and his voice is flat and distant, like he’s not saying the words so much as having them forced on him. Some subroutine in his brain moving his lips without permission. “He came to you.” He recognises the shape filling Oswald’s face as a smirk, but feels nothing in response. The part of him that processes emotion temporarily shut down. “He came to you before he was even committed to the asylum.”

Oswald spreads his arms along the desk behind him again, bobbing his head like a preening bird and making the tallest tufts of his hair begin to flutter.

“He stood right where you’re standing now,” he says. “And explained it all in painstaking detail. Mr Penn’s intention to testify. Where the GCPD were hiding him. His request for witness protection. Then he told me how he planned to rectify the situation. Told me about your and his previous…” He pauses to trail his eyes down Lucius. And down. And for the first time Lucius feels unnerved by his gaze. Naked and exposed. Dear god, exactly how much had Ed told him? How many personal, private details had he divulged? Oswald wets his lips, eyes growing dark for a moment, a couple of wrinkles appearing either side of his nose. Then he blinks and twists the flicker of distaste into another smile, eyes clear as he brings them back up.  “Association,” he finishes. “And how he might use it to his advantage.” He stretches his lips wider and lifts a shoulder. “He even gave me a timetable.” Lucius sets his jaw. It would seem the operating system for his emotions has rebooted and he wishes it hadn’t. “I thought the whole thing was unnecessarily long and convoluted,” Oswald carries on. “But, he had done me a favour exposing a threat I was unaware of and his scheme promised to benefit me in the end. So I agreed to indulge him.”

Lucius tries to be stoic. He really does.

“Indulge him…” he repeats, dropping his eyes. Hoping that if he can no longer see Oswald’s haughty expression the pain will lessen. “Because he wanted – he wanted to do it…”

He thinks speaking the truth aloud might make it easier. Tangible. Give the facts a finite form he can master. But instead the words congeal into a ball in his throat, hard and painful and impossible to swallow.

“Wanted is quite the understatement,” Oswald adds, obvious to Lucius’ pain. Or not. At this point Oswald’s feelings about him are the least of Lucius’ worries. “He practically _begged_ me. ‘Please, Oswald. I _need_ to do this, you _have_ to let me do this.’”

Have to.

He had to.

_You think I did this, any of this, for my entertainment? No, I did this because I had to – I had to._

It was never outside forces compelling Ed to act. The compulsion had come from inside him. It was all Ed, all along. Right from the start.

He remembers Ed crumpled at the foot of his bed. Broken and bleeding and crying.

_I just want to get it right. I need to get it right. Just once, so I know I can. I need to get it right this time._

“That’s why it had to be Arkham,” Lucius realises. “When he came to me, I would have taken him anywhere, found him any doctor he asked for. But Penn was in Arkham. So it had to be Arkham.”

If Oswald is impatient with Lucius’ commentary he doesn’t show it.

“I offered to have him committed myself,” he says. “I could have had one of my men drop him off. He seemed certain you’d visit regardless. But he insisted you should be the one to turn him in. Something about appealing to your saviour complex.”

_Help me, Lucius. Please._

His apartment, the blood, the artful positioning of the jacket and hat. How had he not recognised the staging of it all?

Something else resurfaces, something Gordon had told him back when they first learnt about Ed’s unexpected partnership with Doctor Thompkins. There’d been a theatre of some kind down in the Narrows. Or a boxing ring. No, a fight club. Yes, Lucius remembers now. That’s where Ed and Ms Thomkins started out. She ran a clinic and he’d been compère. A literal showman with an open stage on which to hone his skills.

What an honour, to be chosen as the one to test them on.

Lucius remembers Ed’s shaking arms about his neck as they crouched together on the bedroom floor. Had it _all_ been performance? Or had there been moments when Ed’s method acting had found him subsumed by his role?

And what about that week he’d broken down? The moment Lucius had mistakenly assumed Oswald had taken advantage of, when Ed begged for his help and screamed at him for refusing to give it. What was that? A test? To ensure Lucius’ devotion? Or had Ed simply succumbed to a touch of cabin fever?

Most likely Lucius will never know.

Knowing Ed, he probably doesn’t know himself. With all the world as his stage is he even capable of drawing a line between fiction and fact anymore? Even their final moments together, when Lucius had been so sure he’d been coaxing the real Ed into the light, had sprung from the theatrics of the chess board, black and white pieces laid out in particular fashion as set dressing for the encounter.

Black and white.

Understanding hits him, sharp and sudden, like a slap in the face.

“That’s why he never played white.”

“I’m sorry?” Oswald queries, bemused but curious.

“At the asylum, when we played chess he always used the black pieces,” Lucius explains. “I thought it was because –” He cuts off, shaking his head. Just another useless, naïve assumption. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong. The pieces didn’t symbolise some abstract concept, it was about the _colour_. He played black because he was _playing me_.”

He points both hands to his face and rolls his eyes. All that time he’d spent trying to find deeper meaning in the choice and it had been about the goddamn colour of his skin.

For what feels like the hundredth time that evening Oswald starts to laugh.

“Yes, that does sound like him,” he chuckles as he turns and reaches for the decanter at his side. He lifts it to the light, exposing the small pool of amber lining the crystal base. He must deem the level insufficient because he discards the container and moves from the desk to a gleaming mahogany cabinet against the wall to his right. “Imagine if your chess board had been white and _red_ ,” he adds over his shoulder as he pulls open the doors to reveal a well stocked mini bar, complete with three different sets of glasses and a cocktail shaker. “How furious he would have been,” he goes on, selecting a fresh bottle of whiskey and twisting the cap with a cheerful hum. “Not to be able to tie in the pieces to his little game.”

Oswald grabs a new glass and tips another enthusiastic portion of whiskey inside, focused on speed over finesse with large drops splashing up, and in some cases over, the sides.

Watching him gulp a mouthful down leaves a bitter taste in Lucius’ mouth. Not because of Oswald’s minor lack of decorum, but because he’s _right_ about Ed and needs no reassessment or second guessing to know it.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but Lucius supposes that despite Ed’s insistence to the contrary he’d assumed that Oswald’s understanding of the man was limited. Twisted. No match for his own.

“So,” Lucius starts. No longer a chess piece but a featureless, purposeless counter moving at the whims of chance. Said movement being a long, slippery tumble down the back of a shining green snake to the riddle Ed had left him in after the fire. “What now?” As Oswald looks up from his glass Lucius glances at the gun still on the desk. “Are you going to pick up that gun and turn it on me, as proof of your nature?”

Lucius slips his hands in his pockets, surprisingly calm at the thought. He doesn’t want to die, but if he must he’s confident Oswald will be gentlemanly enough to make it quick and he can at least face the end with a clean conscience.

“If I wanted to kill you, Mr Fox,” Oswald tells him. “I have an excellent blade in my cane that would have been more that suited to the purpose.”

He nods to the desk so Lucius turns back to it. He doesn’t remember seeing – ah yes, hooked over the desk’s wooden edge beside the chair is a familiar silver cane topper in the shape of a bird. Now he thinks about it the absence of the cane is glaring – Oswald rarely travels anywhere without it these days. Presumably because walking unaided is too painful.

The fact he’d approached Lucius without the cane is significant then. A calculated move to highlight his limp. Making him appear less of a threat, increasing his chances of catching Lucius off guard. Or a way to emphasise both his own prowess and Lucius’ ineptitude at villainy, showing he could best Lucius even at his weakest.

Although if it’s true about the blade then he’d also knowingly divested himself of a weapon, indicating either that he was confident he wouldn’t have to defend himself or that, as he said, he really did have no intention of harming Lucius at all.

Or all of the above.

Curious, Lucius steps forward, grabs the cane and holds it horizontally in both hands. It only takes a brief examination for him to identify the hidden mechanism and with a twist of the bird’s metal beak he unlocks the clasp and pulls the hidden dagger free from its casing.

The remaining tension across his shoulders bleeds out as he sheaths the blade and turns back.

Oswald is unperturbed at Lucius being armed once more, but then Lucius has already proven himself incapable of inflicting physical harm on the other man. This simply makes them even.

“You see, Lucius,” Oswald says. Then stops. “May I call you Lucius?”

It’s too much of an afterthought to be truly polite. Lucius suspects a protest will be ignored, so he makes a different response.

“Just don’t call me Foxy,” he says, moving beside Oswald at the mini bar and offering him the cane.

Oswald’s gaze flicks from Lucius’ face to the cane and back again before he accepts the offer and request together with a nod.

“You see, Lucius,” he repeats, tapping the cane to the floor and shifting his weight over it. “It pleases me to know there is someone else out there experiencing the same unique brand of suffering my days are now imbued with.” He takes another gulp from the glass, wincing as he swallows this time. Whether from the burn of alcohol or the memory of said suffering it’s hard to say. Though it occurs to Lucius as he watches that three glasses of high percentage whiskey in such a short space of time is particularly excessive. Perhaps Lucius is not the only using present numbness to escape the past. “I know you claimed we were incomparable and I understand, I do. In character and temperament we have little in common.”

“Nothing in common,” Lucius interrupts and Oswald concedes the point with a slow tilt of his head.

“But nevertheless, we share something profound, you and I,” Oswald goes on, cutting through the air from Lucius to himself with his glass. The whiskey inside swirls about. “Something no one else in the world can possibly understand. Because the truth is, no matter what you might think, I am not your enemy, Lucius. Or your rival.” He leans forward, head at Lucius’ shoulders. “No, at the end of the day –” His head tips back and his eyes stab into Lucius, holding him fast. “We are both of us _victims_ of the same natural disaster.”

More terrifying than the vision of the man dead at his hand is the _affinity_ Lucius finds in him now. The same sadness and passionate longing to be struck once more by the disaster that is Edward Nygma that he can, even now, feel in his own heart, is on open display beneath Oswald Cobblepot’s thick, mascaraed lashes.

He wants to pull away. But he _can’t_.

“In a way,” Oswald muses, turning to swish the last mouthfuls of whiskey around his glass and allowing Lucius freedom to breathe again. “It must be worse for you.” He stills the glass and stares to the distance, nodding to himself. “Lies, bullet wounds, assassination attempts – I’m used to those. And I only love the man.” To hear Oswald Cobblepot, The Penguin, currently the most feared and powerful criminal in Gotham city to date, make this confession so glibly is staggering. Tantamount to a miracle. Lucius can only gape. “But you,” Oswald continues, flicking his eyes back. “You want to save him too. Which is a far more hopeless endeavour.” He keeps his eyes on Lucius as he sips more of the drink, sympathetic lines creasing about his eyebrows.

It’s disconcerting, finding the animal he’s built up such hatred for may in fact be more man than monster. 

“I think I’ll have that drink now,” Lucius says. “If it’s all the same to you?”

Oswald gestures to the bar.

“Please, help yourself.”

The whiskey bottle on top of the cabinet is blue label – one of Lucius’ favourites. But watching Oswald continue to sip his own with enthusiasm Lucius thinks he’d rather sample something different tonight. He bends down to examine the choice and finds it extensive – three rows deep with bottles of all shapes and sizes imported from all corners of the globe. A coffee liqueur near the back catches his eye, but as he reaches for it his arm brushes something papery stashed behind the cocktail shaker.

An origami penguin. It’s crumpled and a little faded with age, but the silver and black colouring still has a faint sparkle to it.

He hesitates a moment, then can’t resist stroking a finger over the tight fold of the beak.

The fox had been Oswald’s suggestion, Ed told him. It hadn’t occurred to Lucius that the idea may have come from experience.

Penguin and fox. Quite the menagerie Ed is building. Lucius wonders which animal he plans to vanquish next.

He’s just about to return to the liqueur when notices something the other side of the shaker, hidden in the shadows. He hadn’t seen it at first because its small body, every tiny, intricate fold, is made entirely of black card.

“What’s this?” he asks, extracting the creature and displaying it in his palm as he straightens up.

Oswald tuts.

“I asked the same thing when he left it,” he answers. “You know what he told me?”

Lucius lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s a scorpion, duh!” Oswald rolls his eyes, but the shake of his head is fond, a flicker of a smile at his lips. “Although,” he goes on, growing more thoughtful as his eyes fall back on the paper animal. “He did say I was asking the wrong question.”

Did he now?

A familiar pull starts up inside Lucius. A tugging of metaphorical shirt sleeves telling him to _pay attention_ because this is important.

It’s the same pull he’d felt way way back in the lab as he read about different academics dying and started to see a connection. The same pull he’d felt following the rest of Ed’s clues after the chess tournament. And again when Ed left him that envelope at the bar. And after the riddle in the crossword puzzle. And yet again watching Ed play black week after week in the asylum.

This is another piece of the puzzle that is Edward Nygma. Another clue to the truth of him. And whatever the reason – love, addiction, infatuation or saviour complex – Lucius can’t resist.

From Oswald’s bemusement it seems a scorpion means little to him. But it means something to Lucius. Ed had labelled himself one as they drove to Arkham, likening them to the fable – two creatures traversing the same river.

The comment had seemed sweet back then, if somewhat self-depreciating. Now Lucius thinks it might have been a warning.

In any case, considering the personal history with the creature it gives Ed and himself, it doesn’t seem illogical to assume this one is meant as a message for him. But if so, why leave it in Oswald’s liquor cabinet?

Could it be – had Ed _anticipated_ Lucius would come here and confront Penguin? Or hoped he would, perhaps.

Lucius wouldn’t put it past the man.

So, assuming this is a message for him – what is it?

Another apology, like the crossword? A show of sympathy and regret at keeping to his nature and stinging Lucius after all? Or could the message be inside the paper, as with the fox from the asylum?

After the pain dismantling the last origami creature had brought him, Lucius is loathe to open another. The new fox Ed had left at his apartment remains intact and safely hidden in a secret drawer Lucius had created for the purpose in his bedroom.

Perhaps there’s something inside both of them that only makes sense when put together? Although it would be difficult to write anything on the scorpion’s black card, Ed would have had to use a silver pen or –

Black.

Lucius’ whirring mind screeches to a halt.

The scorpion is black.

And the last fox had been pure white.

Black and white again. Like the chess pieces.

But if the black pieces in Arkham had been Lucius, and the scorpion is Ed, then why is the scorpion also black?

The wrong question, he’d told Oswald.

“Who,” Lucius mutters.

“Who?” Oswald repeats and because it’s only a fraction of Lucius’ unspoken deductions he misunderstands and takes the comment as a question. “Oh, it was Victor Zsasz, obviously,” he mocks. “You know how enigmatic _he_ can be.” He throws up the hand holding his glass, now thankfully empty, in exasperation. “Who do you think?”

“No. The question you were supposed to ask,” Lucius tells him, unfazed by the dramatics. Though he does wonder if the tendency to melodrama is a general criminal trait, or one exclusive to Gotham. “Not ‘what is it?’ but ‘who is it?’”

This gives Oswald pause and he stares down at the animal in Lucius’ palm with renewed interest. Ed really does hold him in the same thrall, doesn’t he?

“Who is a scorpion?” Oswald surmises, looking to Lucius for confirmation. But when Lucius nods back he shrugs. “In this city?” he says, lips quirking to the side. “Could be anyone.”

“Yes,” Lucius answers, lifting the animal further into the light to examine its complexities in more detail. “Yes, I think that’s the point.”

Anyone. Even him.

Had Ed also felt stung? Had he been trying to carry Lucius across a different river?

“You know, scorpions are highly misunderstood creatures,” Lucius says, trying to escape the intensity of his thoughts by diverting them into a tangent. “There are over a thousand known species of scorpion, but less than two percent have venom lethal to humans. And even those rarely inject enough to be fatal. To do so would deplete their supply, which would leave them far too vulnerable. A typical scorpion sting might hurt badly at the time, but it’s quite survivable.”

A long pause follows this that Lucius is too absorbed with the paper animal to pay any mind to.

“Well,” Oswald cuts into the silence. “Isn’t that _neat?_ ”

There’s an odd bitterness to the comment that makes Lucius frown, but when he looks over Oswald is waving his empty glass dismissively.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “For a moment you…” His eyes grow wistful. “You reminded me of someone I used to know.” He shakes his head and places the glass on top of the cabinet with a decisive tap. “And as to scorpions –” He nods to the creature. “If one ever stung me, deadly or not, I’d _crush them_.” He makes a fist with his hand at the side of his face, nose wrinkled slightly, eyes fierce. “Make sure they don’t get another chance.”

As Lucius stares at him the hardness in his expression seems weaker than it once had, full of cracks that threaten to smash the whole of it to pieces if pressed.

“Would you though?” he asks. Soft. Testing one of those cracks. Just gently. Just to see. “Or would you freeze them instead, in the hope you’d develop an immunity to their poison someday?”

Oswald drops his arm and goes very still, face blank.

Lucius is just starting to think he pushed too hard and has made a terrible mistake when Oswald melts into a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear, his eyes bright. But what’s perplexing is that they are _warm_ and bright. There’s no threat to be found anywhere in the expression. Even the finger Oswald lifts to wag before his face is a tease as opposed to a sign of any real disapproval.

“You may be blinkered in certain areas,” Oswald smiles. “But you’re a perceptive man, Lucius Fox.” He folds his hand on top of the other over his cane, green leather squeaking as he shifts the stick so it’s dead centre in front of him. “And I can hardly fault you for a blind spot we both share.” He bends forward to nod and the enthusiasm trembles through his whole upper body. “If you are ever in the market for a career change, I’m sure I can find a place for you.”

Wait. Lucius had come here to kill the man. Surely he can’t be hearing right.

“Is this – are you offering me a job?”

“Do you want one?”

Surprise makes Lucius blunt.

“No,” he says but regrets the impoliteness immediately. “Although I appreciate the offer,” he adds to temper the rejection, shocked by how much he means it. From wishing death on the man to wishing him well. It’s been a hell of a night.

While Oswald doesn’t seem offended, the addendum seems lacking to Lucius and he searches for something more he can offer. His eyes catch on the scorpion still in his hand and he nods. He’d thought to take it with him when he left, but he thinks he’s uncovered its relevance now and if the penguin is anything to go by Oswald is clearly attached to paper keepsakes.

“I don’t think working with you would be in my nature,” Lucius says as he places the animal on top of the cabinet, its delicate tail curling up the side of Oswald’s glass.

As Oswald lets his gaze fall to the creature his smile grows softer and a little pained at the edges, wincing lines at the corners of his eyes.

Lucius has a sudden, inexplicable urge to embrace him, ruthless murderer or no.

Despite Ed’s games with colour, black and white the world is not.

“What would you do with the creature, then?” Oswald asks as he shuffles closer to the paper one, touching a gloved fingertip to the scorpion’s tail. “If you were stung?”

Which is just another way back to the riddle Ed has left him in – what now?

“I don’t know,” Lucius confesses.

Tonight may have been a victory for his integrity – that or a bullet dodged, both literal and metaphorical – but when it comes to finding his way back to Ed the evening has been a resounding failure. The distance between them is wider than ever. A turbulent river, fathoms deep. Just like the one in the fable.

Which is a foolish tale with an impractical moral, when you think about it. If a scorpion’s strength is its sting then what’s the good of asking it to suppress the skill? If both creatures truly wanted to cross the water together they should have found a solution that utilised each of their abilities. Crafted a bridge or –

“Teach it to swim,” Lucius says, testing the validity of the hypothesis on his tongue. “Perhaps.”

“Can scorpions swim?” Oswald asks, an undercurrent of laughter in the question.

“I have no idea.” Lucius grins. “But it might be fun to find out.” Because isn’t that the best part of being a scientist? Making discoveries. Developing new and better solutions to the world’s problems? “Everyone needs a hobby.”

“Dangerous hobby to pick,” Oswald notes, no laughter this time and Lucius turns his focus to him, wondering if the threat he’s been expecting has finally come due.

But no, Oswald’s face is clear. The lift of his eyebrows implies concern if anything.

“This is Gotham,” Lucius shrugs.

With a drop of his chin Oswald concedes the point.

“Thank you, Mr Cobblepot –”

“Oswald. Please.”

“Thank you, Oswald,” Lucius corrects. “For your hospitality. But I think I should be going. Before I overstay my welcome.” He checks his watch. “Your men should be coming round in a couple of hours. I’ll lift the lockdown as I leave.”

“There’s no chance, I suppose, that you might tell me the weakness in my security that allowed you to assume control?”

There’s something quite delicious about the light-hearted banter they’ve fallen into. Lucius feels his smile turn sly.

“I’m sure there’s someone you can contact with the necessary intellect to figure it out.”

The corners of Oswald’s lips flick up, similarly shrewd.

“Until we meet again, my friend.”

The title feels undeservingly familiar and yet unexpectedly appropriate, so Lucius accepts it with a nod and leaves the way he came in, without looking back.

He cuts the same path as before, skirting the same bodies, including the goon whose gun he’d stolen. He gives the man a last, fleeting look, before tapping the necessary code into the panel beside the entrance and stepping out into the biting night air.   

He expects the city to feel different after the drama of the evening – the revelations he’d experienced, the line he’d almost crossed. Because how can the world be the same with his knowledge of it so altered?

But it’s the same old Gotham – neon lights, smoke rising in the distance, sirens blaring.

A diamond plate, a glowing grate, a place you never leave.

Lucius smiles.

How Ed had scowled at him, a stranger, for daring to solve that one. Unknowingly making a riddle of himself in the process.

And that’s been their problem all along hasn’t it? Too much focus on the wrong riddles, the wrong questions.

Who are you?

Who am I?

Meanwhile the riddle that introduced them remains. Both of them still waiting for someone, somehow, to carry them home. To take them to that fabled place beyond the river. A place the end of the story keeps always and forever tantalisingly out of reach.

But there’s hope yet, Lucius thinks.

Because this is a different story. A story that has something a fable doesn’t.

Riddle me this –

_What never was, but is always to be._  
_Known by all, but never seen?_


End file.
